


The Right Man

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Crossovers: Highlander, Drama, Episode Related: Attraction, Episode Related: Cypher, Episode Related: Remembrance, Episode Related: Switchman, M/M, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-11
Updated: 1999-01-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Jim Ellison goes off the deep end for a supposedly dead man.<br/><b>Archivist note</b>: This story has been split into two parts for easier loading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, thank Carla, who gave me the idea and the image that drives the plot (such as it is ;-). She gets megakudos for the beta too. She put a lot of time and energy into helping me 'flesh' it out. Any inaccuracies, spelling mistakes, typos, etc. are mine.

Due to the length of this story, it has been split into two parts

## The Right Man

by Bette Bourgeois

Author's webpage: <http://arii.simplenet.com>

Author's disclaimer: Not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holders for The Sentinel or Highlander: The Series.

* * *

The Right Man - part one  
by Bette Bourgeois 

Detective James Ellison, Cascade PD, and his partner, Blair Sandburg, doctoral candidate in anthropology at Rainier University --Sentinel and Guide-- were headed home in the wee small hours of the morning after a long night's work. The stake-out had been successful and back-up had been ready. The bust had gone down without a hitch, and a half dozen perps were arrested and on their way to holding cells for the night. Ellison and his partner were headed home for a couple of hours shut-eye before they had to be back at the station bright and early to do their part in finishing up the case. 

They'd helped shut down a small mom-and-pop drug operation run out of a rundown farm out in the countryside just beyond the city limits. Returning to the city, they had just pulled onto the Cascade Narrows Bridge when something flashed on the roadway ahead of them, momentarily blinding Jim's highly sensitive sentinel sight. 

"Whoa!" He automatically slowed the truck until his eyesight had recovered enough to be able to tell what had caught his eye. 

"What is it, Jim?" Blair looked at his partner as they slowed. 

"Something on the bridge up ahead. A bright flash of light, like a spark or something," Jim answered. He edged the truck slowly forward, not wanting to put the two of them in unnecessary danger if there was something structurally wrong with the bridge. As they got closer, Jim could make out two dark figures moving back and forth across the bridge. When they moved closer together, he saw the sparks again. 

"They're swords!" Jim exclaimed in shocked surprise. 

"What?" Blair didn't understand what Jim meant. "Swords?" 

"It's two guys fighting with swords," Jim explained, pressing down on the accelerator now that he'd identified the problem. "When their swords clash, there's this spark of light." 

Jim's partner squinted as he peered through the windshield of the truck in an effort to see as far as the Sentinel. It was a hopeless cause. "Who would be out practising sword fighting on Cascade Narrows Bridge at 3 o'clock in the morning?" Blair's tone was skeptical. He still couldn't see anybody. He wondered if Jim's fatigue was getting to him. It had been a long stakeout, made even longer with the perps arriving on the scene just as their shift was due to end at midnight. 

Jim slowed the truck as they came closer, keeping his eyes pinned on the two figures in the long dark coats. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen. Surely they weren't actors rehearsing for a play or a film, were they? There were no film crew trucks on the bridge. In fact, as far as he could see, there were no other vehicles at all in sight. The detective's truck had just gotten close enough for his partner to finally catch sight of two dark figures silhouetted against the night, when one of them slumped to the ground. 

"Jesus!" Jim shouted and jammed on the brakes, throwing the gear shift into park. 

"What?!" Blair lurched beside him as the truck rocked to a halt. He threw out his hands to prevent an uncomfortable meeting with the dashboard. Jim hardly ever swore, and when he did it was a bit of a shock. 

"He just cut the other guy's head off!" Jim cried out in disbelief. He had his door open and was climbing out, when all hell broke loose. At least, that's what his enhanced eyesight was telling him. Flashes of lightning appeared out of nowhere, striking the bridge abutments, skittering along metal surfaces. Light bulbs exploded overhead on both sides of the bridge, sending glass shards into the air like confetti. "Stay in the truck!" Jim shouted at Blair above the din and he backed up against the front bumper of the truck himself watching the scene before him wide-eyed with wonder. 

A strange glow surrounded the decapitated body and it slowly began to levitate into the air. Jim blinked, not believing what his eyes were telling him. Then a bolt of lightning struck the man who was standing to the side of the body. Jim's own body jerked in shock as he watched bolt after bolt hit the standing figure. The man shook and staggered, throwing his arms up over his head, sword still clenched in one fist, pointing now at the night sky. Jim heard the man scream in agony and watched as the same strange glow began to light up his body as it had the one hanging above the blacktop. 

"Jesus!" Jim whispered the imprecation, or was it a prayer this time? 

He watched a bolt of lightning strike the man's sword and travel down the upraised arm right into the man's body and watched that body jerk in reaction. Jim asked himself, how could that guy still be standing? Something touched Jim's arm and he jerked violently in reaction himself, turning towards the touch. "What?!" he choked out in anger. Then seeing Blair standing beside him, "I thought I told you to stay in the damn truck?!" Another shower of sparks fell from the top of the bridge and filled the night sky. 

"Jim," Blair glanced into Jim's shocked gaze and then back to the drama on the roadway. "Jim, that is no natural phenomenon happening there. There are no clouds in the sky. Look at all the stars," he pointed to the night sky, drawing Jim's gaze there. "That lightning is not coming from the sky, Jim. It's coming from those two guys on the bridge," he pointed again, in awe at the sight. 

Jim's eyes had been drawn back to the men on the bridge again too. "No," Jim corrected Blair. "It's coming from the guy with the missing head." Jim watched as the dead body dropped onto the bridge, lifeless, a limp black shape in the darkness. The standing figure finally slumped to its knees. Jim heard the clang of the sword as he saw it fall from the man's hand. He saw the man bend forward, curling over on himself, his head meeting pavement as he seemed to crumple slowly, still surrounded by a faint aura of electricity. "And it was being drawn into the other guy." 

"What?!" Blair stared at Jim. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes," Jim stated. "I saw arcs of it stretching from the dead body to the guy standing with the sword. It looked like his body was drawing it in like a magnet." Jim was silent for a moment, considering his own words and how unbelievable they actually sounded. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen, Chief," he muttered. Turning to his partner, he shot him a sharp glare. "You stay here by the truck or I'll beat the livin' daylights out of you when we get home," he threatened. "Understood, Blair?" 

Blair just nodded and then watched Jim head toward the slumped figures about a hundred feet ahead of them on the bridge. As Jim got closer, Blair heard the detective call out. 

"Cascade PD! Are you all right, sir?" 

Jim watched as the man kneeling on the road jerked upright and turned his head. The dark eyes flashed open and Jim got a good look at the saturnine features glowing a dull white in the darkness. A jolt of recognition pierced the Sentinel's memory and then was gone as the man moved. Jim watched as the crouched figure reached for the sword lying near, using it to lever himself unsteadily to his feet. He then staggered back away from the approaching detective. 

Jim saw the sword swing around and point towards him. Pulling his gun from its holster he took a bead on the man's heart and called out, "Cascade PD! Put down your weapon and step away from it!" The sword disappeared, but Jim didn't see it hit the pavement. Then the man turned and started running in the opposite direction. "Stop!" Jim yelled. "Police! Stop or I'll have to shoot!" 

The figure stopped and turned to face Jim. That jolt of recognition hit the Sentinel again when he saw the moonlight on the long nose cast a large shadow across the handsome face. Then he watched in horror as the man rushed to the side of the bridge and climbed the railing. 

"NO!" Jim shouted in horror, but it was too late. He saw the long coat flap and then the figure was no longer outlined against the bright lights of Cascade. "NO!" Jim shouted again in denial at what his own eyes were telling him. He raced over to the side of the bridge in time to see a gigantic splash as something hit the water in the gorge, and then the surface smoothed out as if it had swallowed the man whole. No body floated to the top; no coat, no nothing. He had vanished. If Jim hadn't seen the splash with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it had happened. 

Jim looked back at his truck. Blair, seeing the signal, came rushing over. He stood beside Jim, looking down into the depths of the black waters beneath the bridge. 

"I can't believe he jumped," Blair stuttered. "Where'd he go?" His gaze searched both banks, and then down the river as far as he could see. 

"He vanished," Jim replied in a dazed voice. "He hit the water and just vanished. Reminds me of the stunt that Lash pulled." 

"Lash survived the jump," Blair reminded Jim. 

"Yeah, and maybe this guy did too," Jim muttered. He pulled out his cell phone. "Better get a team out here." 

"This one's going to take a lot of explaining," Blair shook his head in bewilderment. 

"Simon is _not_ gonna believe this one," Jim agreed. 

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Captain Simon Banks, head of the Major Crime division, Cascade PD, removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. Why did Ellison and Sandburg always have to bring him these kinds of cases? Couldn't they stick to car-jackings and bank robberies? He swore that every psycho on the continent made their way to Cascade just to take on his best detective and his partner. 

Simon cleared his throat. "You saw a guy in a black trench coat use a sword to decapitate his opponent in a sword-fight on Cascade Narrows Bridge at 3 o'clock in the morning." He glanced from one stone-faced man to the other. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd asked them to repeat this. They were obviously starting to get irritated with his tone of disbelief. "Said decapitator was then struck repeatedly by lightning even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky all night." He checked their expressions again. Sandburg had closed his eyes, as if he could hide from the expression in Simon's. "The suspect then brandished his sword at Jim in a threatening manner," here he paused to meet Jim's eyes, but Jim was staring at the ceiling. "And when asked to disarm, threw himself off the Cascade Narrows Bridge, into the gorge below, where he disappeared from sight, never to be seen again." He pushed his glasses back on his face and checked out his two men again, hoping that the addition of his eye wear would help him see something that he was missing without them. "Is that right?" 

"Yes," Jim and Blair chorused without a missed beat. They'd been rehearsing this for the past half hour and had it down pat by now. 

"Gentlemen," Simon removed his glasses again. They hadn't helped. "This makes no sense." 

"You're right," Ellison agreed. He exchanged a look with Blair, who tried valiantly to hide a smile. 

"Why do you two bring me reports that make no sense, gentlemen?" Simon asked. 

"They're the facts, sir," Jim pointed out solemnly. 

"Don't you get lippy with me, Ellison," Simon threatened with a sharp voice. 

"I was there, Simon," Blair piped up. "That makes two of us who saw it." He didn't look at Jim, but he knew his partner was either smiling or trying hard to hide one. 

Simon's sharp retort was cut off as a knock on his door interrupted them and it opened. Rhonda, his secretary, stepped through the door holding a manila folder. "The autopsy report you were waiting for, sir?" she smiled at Simon. She handed it to Blair, who was nearest the door, and he passed it on to the captain, who had stood up to receive it. 

"Thanks, Rhonda," Simon accepted the folder. "Anything on our John Doe yet?" His secretary just shook her head, shrugged and backed out the door again, closing it gently. 

Jim and Blair watched Simon reseat himself behind his desk, opening the folder as he did. They waited while he read its contents. 

"Cause of death: decapitation." Simon snorted. "No kidding." He read further. "Body subjected to extreme heat post-mortem." He raised his eyebrows as he stared up at Jim. 

"I watched an electrical field of some kind engulf his body." Jim's voice was calm, cool and insistent. "It then discharged itself as lightning into the body of the other man." 

"And blew out every light on the bridge in the process," Blair added. "Glass was flying _everywhere_." 

"Sandburg, I thought you were in the truck," Simon growled at Blair. 

"Simon," Blair sighed. "Those flashes of lightning lit up the bridge like it was midday." 

The captain sighed in frustration. "Okay, okay." He waved his hands in front of himself in a signal of surrender, defeated by their certainty. "Let's just forget about the light show for a moment. What we have here is a homicide and a suicide." 

"Without a second body," Jim reminded him. "They've been dragging the Narrows since dawn and haven't found anything; not a body, not a sword, not even a trench coat. Same for the ground crew. Nothing found on either bank." 

"Well, maybe if we can get this headless body identified, we can start looking into who might want him dead," Simon suggested. 

"The prints are working their way through channels, sir," Jim assured him. "Nothing has shown up on the local database. Nothing from the Feds so far. We've sent them to Interpol. It's a long shot, but it's all we've got." 

Simon sighed. "All right. Keep me posted." 

"We're off to get some lunch," Jim announced as he and Blair headed for the door. 

"All right. Get out of here," Simon muttered and went back to the report in front of him. 

* * *

Jim and Blair found an empty booth in the diner just down the street from the precinct. The place did a nice hot corned beef on rye that even Sandburg could appreciate. The first rush of lunch hour was over and they had plenty of seats to choose from. The waitress was friendly and Blair smiled a thanks as Jim took his first bite. 

"So, what if nothing comes up on the prints?" Blair started the conversation. "Have we got any other options?" 

Jim swallowed. "We might." 

"Like what?" his partner mumbled around a mouthful. 

"I think I recognized the guy who jumped," Jim stopped chewing for a moment, once again trying to place the face: long nose, intense eyes, narrow jaw, short hair. He couldn't come up with anything other than a feeling of familiarity. 

"You're kidding?" Blair stopped eating too. "From where? Why didn't you say anything to Simon?" 

"Well, that's just it," Jim complained. "I don't remember where or why he seems familiar. I can see the face in my mind's eye, but damned if I can put him in a place or with a name. With the attitude Simon was giving us on this case so far, I didn't want to add my frustrations to his. I mean, a face that I recognize but can't identify isn't much help." 

"Well, hell, we've reconstructed memories for you before," Blair argued. "We can give that another try. No reason why it can't work again." 

"Okay," Jim agreed. "But tonight, at home. I can't concentrate on something like that here at work. And I want to go through the mug shots first and see what happens with those prints." 

After lunch Blair headed off to the university to teach an afternoon class. Jim was still mired in mug shots when the phone rang on his desk. The good news was that Interpol had identified their John Doe and were faxing the info even as the agent spoke with Jim on the phone. As soon as he had the sheets in his hand Jim slipped them into a folder and knocked on Simon's office door. 

"What now?" Simon didn't even look up from his computer screen where he was typing a report. 

"Interpol have IDed our John Doe, Captain," Jim came in and closed the door. "Smuggler working out of Eastern Europe. Name of Jacques Cartier. Runs a legit import/export business out of Prague. They've contacted his company," here Jim checked the reports, "and his office says he's on an American buying trip. He didn't have any business in Cascade as far as they know, but he was due Friday in San Francisco." 

"And nobody has any idea why he would be stopping in Cascade," Simon concluded sourly. 

"The agent with Interpol promised to fax details of his itinerary as soon as they can get it from his office; probably sometime tomorrow. Until then," Jim shrugged, "there's not much else to do but wait." 

"All right," Simon agreed. "Got anything else for me?" 

"Well," Jim reluctantly sat down across from his captain. "Sort of." 

"Sort of?" Simon sighed. "What does that mean, and do I really want to know?" 

"I kind of recognized the guy that jumped off the bridge," Jim confessed. 

"What?" Simon sat forward in his chair. "Why didn't you say so?!" he demanded. 

It was Jim's turn to sigh in frustration. "Because I can't tell you who he is. There's just something familiar about his face," Jim closed his eyes for a second and rubbed a weary hand across tired eyelids. "But I can't place it. I've been looking at mug shots all afternoon and nothing is happening." 

"Great," Simon muttered. 

"Sandburg is going to try and help me remember tonight," Jim offered. "It's a shot in the dark, but I'm willing to give it a try." 

"Well, let me know if you two manage to come up with anything," the captain grunted and went back to his report. 

"Will do," Jim agreed. 

* * *

When Jim got back to the loft there was a message on the answering machine from Blair that he had a meeting at 7:00 that evening and wouldn't be back home before 9:00, so Jim went ahead and nuked some leftovers in the microwave for his dinner. He couldn't find anything worth watching on the tube and decided to put a little music on the stereo and see if it helped him relax enough to work on retrieving the missing memory that was keeping him from identifying their sword-wielding jumper. 

He sat back and closed his eyes, concentrating on evening out his breathing and visualizing the man's face in his mind's eye. What was it about the guy that had stuck him there in Jim's memory? Okay, he thought, let's start with the most obvious. The guy was good looking, attractive in a very aesthetically-pleasing kind of way. 

Could that have been it? Had he been attracted to their mystery man the first time he met him, and didn't remember it? The nose was memorable; long, but not in a negative way. No, on the long, chiselled face, it's length gave the face a look of almost classical beauty. The mouth wasn't a pretty mouth, it was too severe for beauty. But there was a sensuality to it that was hidden by its straight lines. 

It was becoming clearer to Jim with every moment spent contemplating the lines of that remembered face, that he _had_ been attracted to it. In fact, there was the faint memory of something magnetic in the man's gaze. Something had drawn him to this face, had _made_ him remember it, even though he couldn't remember the context. But he definitely remembered feeling drawn with a stirring of interest that he hadn't felt towards a man in a very, very long time. He went with the feeling, enjoying it again as he must have at the time, trying to place it in a time frame or location, trying to rebuild a memory. 

The next thing Jim knew he heard a voice calling him from some distance, calling his name over and over. His subconscious pulled him towards the voice, recognizing it as his guide's immediately. 

"Jim. Come on, Jim," Blair's voice was soothing yet insistent. "Follow my voice. Come on back, Jim." 

Opening his eyes, Jim smiled at Blair. "Hey, Chief. Been home long?" 

Blair was shaking his head and frowning. "I just got in. How long have you been sitting there zoned, man?" 

"Zoned?" Jim frowned, bewildered. "I was just taking a breather, trying to remember where I saw that guy's face. I wasn't zoned." 

"Jim," Blair sat down beside Jim on the couch. "I couldn't get a response from you. You were gone, man. Completely zoned on something." 

Jim glanced at his watch. It was 9:25. He'd been sitting there for over two hours, he realized, stunned. How time flies when you're having fun . . . or get stuck in a zone-out. He met Blair's worried eyes. "Guess I lost a bit of time there," he agreed sheepishly. 

"Aw, Jim," Blair shook his head in exasperation. "How much?" 

"Couple of hours," Jim shrugged. 

"Man," Blair's breath exploded out of him with suppressed anger. "Why do you take these chances? I said I'd help you when I got home. What's the deal with trying this on your own? You don't need me to tell you how dangerous that is, do you?" 

"Take it easy, Blair." Jim tried to soothe his guide. "No harm done." 

"This time," Blair continued to glare at Jim. He lifted a finger and used it to poke the Sentinel in the chest, making his points with a jab for each word. "Don't . . . do . . . that . . . again . . . without . . . back-up." He paused for even more emphasis and then stabbed one more time. "Got it?" 

Jim grabbed his partner's hand and held it still for a moment before pushing it away. "Okay, okay," he sighed in resignation. "Can we drop it now?" 

"I don't know," Blair was being stubborn. "Can we?" 

"Yes, we can." Jim's voice was strained with trying to keep his annoyance out of it. Blair only had good intentions in mind. It wasn't his fault that Jim hated the feeling of having his senses on a leash; a leash that he had no control over without his guide. 

"Okay," Blair huffed. He hoped he had gotten Jim's attention. The man continued to scare the hell out of Blair with the chances he took by treating his extraordinary senses with such a cavalier attitude. Having to pull Jim out of a zone-out always rattled Blair's cage a bit. Now he had to calm down and give Jim his full attention. He had a promise to keep and they had a bad guy to identify and catch . . . if he was still alive. "So, did you remember anything?" Blair shifted into question-mode. 

"Nothing that can help us find him," Jim shrugged. He didn't want to have to confess that attraction to the man if he didn't have to do it. He'd never told Blair that he was bisexual. It hadn't seemed necessary. After all, he hadn't acted on those kinds of feelings since he was a kid. 

"You mean you _did_ remember something," Blair pounced on the possibility. 

"I said it wasn't anything. I didn't remember where or when I saw him," Jim reiterated. 

"But what _did_ you remember? It may have some significance that you don't recognize yet," Blair insisted. 

"Blair," Jim started, exasperation with his guide clear in his tone. "Just drop it. It wasn't anything significant." 

"How do you know? It sent you into a zone, whatever it was. That sounds like something pretty powerful to me," his guide pointed out. 

Jim sighed. He stared at Blair with pursed lips, wondering what would happen if he told Blair. What kind of impact would it have on their relationship? He didn't want Blair to feel uncomfortable around him. That would be hard to work around considering the amount of time they spent together working in Major Crime and just living together in the same apartment. Still, Blair was a new-age kind of guy. Maybe he'd just take it in stride. 

Blair sat back and watched Jim struggle with the decision of whether or not to tell his partner what he remembered. Whatever it was, it definitely was important, if Jim was having this much trouble telling him about it. He could be patient, knowing he'd get the information sooner or later. The older man knew Blair would just keep asking for it until he got it. 

Jim paced over to the windows slowly and then paced back to the couch. He looked down at Blair again, who was sitting waiting patiently, an inquisitive smile just curving his lips. 

"I remember being attracted to him," Jim stated baldly and braced for the reaction. 

"Attracted to him," Blair repeated. He blinked in confusion. "You found him attractive," Blair tried to verify Jim's statement. Jim just stared back with his usual stoicism. Blair finally clued in. He caught his breath and watched as Jim winced, turned and then paced back to the windows again. "You mean . . . physically," Blair clarified. 

Jim didn't turn around. "Yeah." 

"Oh?" Blair's quiet reaction dropped into the silence. 

"Yeah." Jim's hollow laugh was self-deprecating. 

"Hm," Blair nodded finally. "I wonder if it's a sentinel thing." 

"Blair!" Jim was not amused. He turned to face his guide, hands on hips, exasperation plain. 

"Hey, man," Blair pointed out seriously. "It's another fascinating piece of the sentinel puzzle. It's not too farfetched to believe that your genetic advantages apply to more aspects of your nature than your senses. Bisexuality makes perfect sense. Why didn't you say something before now?" 

Jim was shaking his head. He should have known his guide would take such a personal confession and turn it into a scientific theory. He sighed, trying not to sound too exasperated. "I didn't say anything because I thought it would muddy the waters too much. I mean, we spend a lot of time working together and living together. I didn't want you looking over your shoulder wondering whether I wanted to do some extra intense sentinel/guide bonding. I didn't want you to get the idea that I expected our relationship to move in that direction just because we're so close already." 

Blair blinked for a moment, taking that in. "I wouldn't have thought that, Jim. No way would I suspect you of taking advantage of our work situation or our sentinel/guide relationship to make moves on me. I mean, we're friends first, right?" 

Jim heaved a sigh of pure relief. "Right." 

Blair stifled whatever regrets he might have had at hearing that sigh of relief. He knew Jim just saw him as a good friend, a faithful guide, a competent partner in crime-solving. Perhaps it was a good thing that Jim had made that clear to him, once and for all, without even realizing it. It was good to know where you stood in as confusing a relationship as theirs was. 

"So," Blair brought them back to the issue at hand. "You remember being attracted to him. Does that surprise you?" 

Jim came back and sat down on the couch beside his guide. "Yeah, it does. I haven't been attracted to a guy since I was in the army," he glanced at Blair. "And I haven't acted on that kind of attraction since I was a kid." 

"Define ' kid' for me," Blair asked thoughtfully, quietly logging away the information he was getting from Jim for further contemplation at a later time. It wasn't very often that Jim opened up about personal stuff. Blair found himself hungry for any details of Jim's past. 

"High school," Jim relaxed back against the cushions. "A friend of mine on the football team and I had a fuck-buddy type of thing going. Neither one of us thought we were gay. It was just a game; you know, fooling around, a taste of the forbidden . . ." Jim's voice trailed off as he remembered how innocent he had been back then. 

"And since then?" Blair probed. 

"Well, the opportunity was there in the military," Jim confessed. "But if you wanted to get ahead in the army, you followed the rules and kept out of trouble." He turned to face Blair. "That meant no fraternizing. Of any kind," he clarified. "I wanted command, so I towed the line all the way." 

Blair nodded. "Completely understandable," he agreed. "Ambition was important to you and you had everything you needed to succeed. Why mess that up, right?" 

"That's the way I felt at the time, Chief," Jim nodded, grateful for Blair's understanding. 

"But nothing since you got out?" Blair asked, keeping his voice gently inquisitive. Jim was being unusually forthcoming. He wanted to keep it that way. He valued Jim's trust for the precious gift that it was. 

"No," Jim mused quietly for a moment, trying to remember other faces, other times. "I guess that's why this one guy stuck in my memory," he suggested. "I'd like to see if I can remember anything else about him. Want to give it a try? Or are you tired out after that meeting? It's been a long evening for you." 

"No, no," Blair assured him. "I'll just make a cup of tea and put my feet up. Now that you've started the process, it's a good time to continue working on that memory. Just sit back and relax." 

Jim watched Blair head to the kitchen and heard the kettle being filled. "Would you grab me a beer, please. My throat's feeling scratchy." 

"Tea would be better for you, Jim," his guide called from the kitchen. "Much more soothing." 

Jim sighed. Too weary to argue, he grumbled back, "All right, make me some tea then. I don't really care at this point." 

Blair came to lean at the end of the counter and took in Jim's slouched posture on the couch. "Long day, huh?" 

"Yeah," Jim agreed, laying his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. "I looked at so many mug shots today I started seeing faces on the bullpen walls. And if you remember, we didn't get much sleep when we finally got home this morning. What? Four, maybe five hours?" He turned to look at Blair over the back of the couch. "How do you keep going on so little sleep?" 

"Who knows?" Blair shrugged and turned away to tend to the whistling kettle and the tea-making. "Maybe I'm just used to getting by with less sleep. Maybe it's a metabolism thing and I just don't need as much as you. After all, you usually end up doing all the physical stuff when it comes to catching the bad guys." He brought their tea over to the coffee table and sat a mug down in front of each of them. "And staring at a computer screen doesn't seem to bother me as much as it bothers you either. Probably something to do with your enhanced sight being more sensitive even if you do turn it down." 

Jim picked up the mug and sipped, feeling the soothing warmth against the back of his throat. "You could be right." 

"You ready to try again?" Blair peered at Jim over his own steaming mug. 

Jim sighed and replaced his mug on the table. He sat back, got comfortable and closed his eyes, resting his hands loosely on his thighs. "Ready as I'll ever be, Chief." 

"Okay," Blair began, keeping his tone low and gentle. "Visualize his face. Is that the strongest impression you have of him? The sight of his face? Some particular feature perhaps?" 

"Well," Jim decided thoughtfully, "it's the nose, definitely, that makes the first impression." 

"What about it?" Blair inquired. "Big, small, ugly pug?" 

"No, no, no," Jim's head was shaking, even with his eyes closed. "It's long and aristocratic-looking. It dominates his face, and yet without it he wouldn't be as classically handsome as he is." 

"Handsome, eh?" Blair questioned with a grin. 

"Yeah," Jim mused. "Fine featured, tall, slim . . . about as tall as I am. Dark hair cut almost as short as mine, but spiky. It kind of stands on end, but in an attractive way." 

"That's very modern, that style," Blair observed inconsequentially. 

"He was wearing . . ." Jim reached for an extension of the image. "He was wearing something dark. It covered him almost completely." He paused. "A turtleneck sweater; yeah, that's what it was. He had on a dark coloured turtleneck sweater and a heavy tweed jacket. He held out his hand. Yeah, we shook hands!" Jim sat up straighter on the couch, his hands now clasping his knees anxiously. "I can feel his hand in mine even now . . . God! His hand was hot and sweaty . . . and the feel of it! It was like touching a torch! How could I have forgotten that?" Jim was completely caught up in the memory, reliving the meeting with the mysterious stranger. 

"You were there, Blair," Jim added, out-of-the-blue. 

Blair blinked at his partner in surprise. "I was?" 

"You were there," Jim continued as if he hadn't heard his guide. "You introduced us and he looked at me and held out his hand and I took it and . . . God! The heat coming off his body seared me through the touch of his hand. And there was this overpowering sense of . . . this . . . God, it must have been his scent! Yeah, it was a scent and it just rolled over me in waves like I didn't know what had hit me. And the feeling of it . . . It was more than just smell. It was like scent and feeling rolled into one." Even just remembering it, Jim was suddenly overwhelmed with the same incredible feeling of almost euphoria that he had felt when he came into physical contact with the man. Touch, scent, sight and the feeling . . . 

Jesus! Jim's eyes flew open in horror. He stared for a instant into Blair's bewildered eyes and then launched himself off the couch and across the room before his guide could do more than blink. 

Blair watched Jim take up an almost militarily-stiff position in front of the balcony doors. Wow. What had Jim remembered? Whatever it was, he had just had a very powerful reaction to the memory. 

"What happened, Jim?" Blair asked softly. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine," Jim insisted. He breathed in deeply of the cool air coming off the glass in front of him. Calm down, you idiot, he chastised himself. It was a memory. Just a damn memory. So where the hell had this erection come from? He stood stiffly in his embarrassment, hoping that Blair would give him a couple of minutes to try and get himself under control. 

"What did you remember, Jim?" Blair's question was tentative. 

"I remember where I felt that combination of sensations before," Jim muttered. 

"You do?" Blair was almost too afraid to ask. Something was freaking Jim out. 

"Yeah." Jim's voice was curt. 

"Ah . . . Do you want to tell me?" Blair stared at that rigid back, silhouetted against the night sky. 

"Not really," Jim confessed, but he sounded reluctantly amused. Hell, this was an embarrassing situation. 

"Why not?" Blair tried. 

Jim sighed. Blair was not going to let it go. "Pheromones." 

Blair thought for a moment that he hadn't heard right. "Pheromones?" 

"Yeah." Jim's voice was hushed, embarrassment clear in his tone. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the mess I got into with that woman, Laura?" 

"No, I remember," Blair assured him. "Boy, do I remember. It was scary watching you. It was like you had totally . . ." 

"Lost control of my senses," Jim finished for him with grim determination. "Including my common sense," Jim's voice added, full of self-disgust. 

"But that didn't happen with this guy. I would have remembered something like that, believe me," Blair chuckled quietly. 

Jim closed his eyes, looking back into the past again at that remembered moment. "No, it didn't happen, because he left. It was just a really intense moment of awareness and contact . . . I remember looking into his eyes and meeting this sharp gaze. He had . . . well, hazel eyes, I guess you'd call them; a light brownish-green colour with strange lights and flecks in them. And I felt this surge, like just waking up in the morning. You know, all your senses sitting up and taking notice. Kind of, 'Hello!' and then he pulled away and . . . then he was walking away. I just watched him disappear into the crowd." 

"There was a crowd?" Blair jumped on the detail. "And I was there? What was I doing?" 

Jim searched for Blair in the memory. He was . . . Where was Blair? "Just a minute . . . Blair?" Jim paused, looking into his memory, past the tall handsome man . . . to Blair. Blair was saying something. Blair was . . . "You introduced us, Chief." Jim opened his eyes. He turned and pinned his guide with a sharp look. "You introduced him to me. Yeah. I remember now. He was one of your professor types. I arrived to pick you up after a lecture and you introduced me to this guy. What was he, the speaker or something? You said . . . now what did you say? Give me a minute . . ." 

Blair watched, fascinated as Jim closed his eyes again, standing there silhouetted against the lights of Cascade. Tall, dark and handsome . . . whoever Jim was remembering couldn't be any more attractive than his partner was at that moment. Blair let his eyes take in the sheer physical beauty of the man in front of him and then smiled as his eyes travelled down the familiar figure. Well, guess that answers the question of why Jim had jumped up and taken refuge in embarrassment at the balcony windows. That was definitely an erection pushing against the seam of Jim's slacks. He looked up at the closed eyes of his friend. Jim was so lost in his memories, he probably didn't remember the reason why he had turned his back away from Blair in the first place. Maybe he should pretend he didn't notice? 

Jim's voice continued. "I caught sight of you talking to this guy and I came over to join you. The lecture had ended. People were milling around. I hate crowds like that. God, the mix of sweat and cologne is nauseating. You looked up, motioned me over. This guy turned and our eyes met. Yeah. And you said, 'this is my friend Jim Ellison. Jim's with the Cascade PD.' Yeah. And then I held out my hand and he took it." Jim's voice took on a dreamy disconnected tone as if reliving the moment. "And we're looking at each other and this feeling is washing over me and you're saying . . . What the hell are you saying?" Jim tilted his head, frowning deeply in concentration, the sensual pull easing again. He tried to remember hearing Blair's voice, even though he had barely taken it in at the time. "You said . . . 'Jim meet Professor . . . Alan Grant.' That's it!" Jim's eyes popped open and he stared in triumph at Blair. "Alan Grant!" 

"Alan Grant?" Blair repeated in vague surprised tones. "I remember the guy; tall, skinny, horn-rimmed glasses." 

"I don't remember any glasses, Chief," Jim argued. "And I had a good long look into those eyes," he insisted. 

"Well, he must have taken them off after the lecture," Blair interrupted. "Because he had them on all through the lecture. I remember he kept glancing through them at his notes. He was a guest speaker during our Anthro Lecture Series last spring. He's British, but teaches out of some university in Eastern Europe; you know, one of the former Soviet states. Can't remember which one off the top of my head. Anyway, he was lecturing on the nomadic tribes of Ancient Mesopotamia and I went to hear if he had come across any evidence of sentinels in those cultures." 

"All that is very interesting, Chief," Jim cut off what had the potential to be the beginnings of a boring anthro lecture. "But how do we find the guy now, a year later? And what was he doing back in Cascade? And why would he have been involved in a sword fight on that bridge in the middle of the night? And why would he have jumped off said bridge to his certain death? It just doesn't make sense, like Simon said. We've identified the guy, and it still doesn't make any sense." 

"All right, all right, just calm down." Blair waved at him placatingly. "Come sit down again and we'll think of something." 

Jim returned to the couch beside his guide. It was only as he was reseating himself that he realized that his slacks were still uncomfortably tight across his crotch. He flinched as he sat down and glanced at his guide to see if Blair had noticed. Blair was smiling at him with a quizzical little look that made Jim flush with renewed embarrassment. 

"Take it easy, Jim," Blair tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. "I find it kind of fascinating that even the memory of that pheromone rush can turn you on like that. But don't worry about it embarrassing me. Hell, I gotover that kind of thing when I caught you and Laura in the cloakroom that time," he teased. 

"Sandburg . . ." Jim shook his head as he growled quietly. 

"I have an idea," Blair handed Jim his mug of rapidly cooling tea. "Take a sip and hold it in your mouth. Concentrate on the taste of it and the feel of it in your mouth. Hold the mug close to your face and inhale the aroma. Clear your thoughts of anything else but the experience of drinking and savouring the tea." 

Jim did as Blair instructed and found himself calming and the tightness of his tautly-held muscles easing into something closer to relaxation. He opened his eyes finally after a couple of mouthfuls of tea and teased his partner back. "You know, this would be easier if I liked the taste of tea." 

Blair just chuckled, glad that the strategy had worked. "I've had another idea," he explained. "Professor Markham was the guy who arranged that lecture series last spring. I'll give him a call and see if he knows how to contact this guy, Alan Grant. Maybe we can get hold of some colleagues or something, someone who knows what he was doing in this area. What do you think?" 

"It's certainly worth a try, Chief. Go for it," Jim approved. 

Blair moved to make the call and settled into the corner of the couch with the phone in his hand. "Hello, Professor Markham? This is Blair Sandburg calling. That's right. Sorry to call you so late in the evening, but I'm wondering if you can give me some information about a lecturer we had here at Rainier during last year's Spring Lecture Series." 

Jim opened up his sentinel hearing and both men listened while the good professor recapped his involvement in the endeavour and what a success it had been, figuratively patting himself on the back. "Yes, I know," Blair responded. "I managed to catch some of the lectures myself. Yes, I agree." Blair shrugged apologetically to Jim, catching his eye. Jim just shrugged back good-naturedly. 

"I was wondering if you had heard any news about what Professor Grant was up to these days. That's right, Alan Grant. Yes, I agree; inspired speaker." Blair listened to the other man talk for a minute, then turned wide-eyed and startled to look at Jim. "He is? Are you sure? Well . . . that's . . . that's great." He paused again to let the professor rattle on. "Yes, I'm sure it is." Then impatiently, he interrupted the flow of information. "You contacted him yourself? Do you have a number for him? I'm anxious to discuss some things about his theories of nomadic migration myself and there never seems enough time to talk after a particularly stirring lecture . . ." Here the other man broke in on Blair's explanation. Blair started shaking his head in exasperation at the other man's continued droning. He put his hand over the receiver and whispered to Jim. "Did you hear that? Grant's supposed to be coming back to Cascade to speak in this spring's series!" 

Finally Blair broke into the professor's monologue again. "Do you have some kind of contact number for him?" Blair blinked and looked at Jim again, wondering if his partner was as surprised as he was at what they were hearing. "He _is_?! They did? Well . . . that was an extraordinary coup on their part, if I may say so? Yes. Yes . . ." Blair laughed reluctantly at a remark. "Yes, I guess the comforts of North American society could be a heavy inducement. Yes, the offer of tenure after two years would be pretty powerful too, I agree." Blair finally had to break in again. "But a contact number . . ." he sighed his impatience. 

Suddenly, Blair scrambled for his backpack on the floor beside the couch and pulled out a notebook and a pen. "Just a minute . . . yes . . ." and he scribbled something down. "That is great . . . Yes, of course. Be happy to do that for you. Yes, yes this is terrific news. Well, I'll let you get back to enjoying your evening. Thank you, Professor. I really appreciate your help. Yes, I will. Thank you again. Good night." 

Blair hung up the phone and turned to Jim with a triumphant smile. "Do you believe that? Grant was such a hit here last spring, and the swelled heads in the Anthro department were so taken with him, that moves were made to persuade him to come here to Rainier permanently! The inducements they offered . . . tenure, accommodation, generous benefits, final say on scheduling . . . Well, you heard him. And it worked!" Blair shook his head in surprise at his own words. "He was due here sometime this week to sign his contract and arrange housing, you know, tying up all the details. He's supposed to be moving here to Cascade officially sometime this summer and start teaching in the fall." 

Jim's mind was immediately racing with questions. "And Professor Markham hasn't seen him." 

"No," Blair's head-shaking indicated a negative. "He knew Grant was coming this week, but somebody else on the committee is supposed to be acting as chaperone. Markham didn't know the details, but doesn't think Grant has arrived yet." 

"Or maybe he arrived but didn't make it as far as the university," Jim made the grim suggestion. 

"Whatever . . ." Blair agreed with a shrug. "Anyway, he gave me the name of the hiring committee member who was going to be showing him around while he's here. Do you want to call her tonight, or wait until morning?" 

Jim and Blair headed into work early the next morning. A telephone call confirmed that Professor Grant had arrived in Cascade two days ago on a flight from London. He'd been feeling jet-lagged, so had begged off sightseeing and was expected to call his contact, Liz Michaels, at Rainier sometime the next day to arrange a tour of the university. He had made an appointment to see Rainier's president and the Chair of the anthropology department yesterday afternoon, but had never shown up. Liz Michaels had tried calling him at his hotel, but he hadn't been in. She was going to try again this morning. Blair relayed the information to Jim and he called the professor's hotel himself before they went in to see Simon with what they'd found out. 

"He hasn't been seen by anyone in over 24 hours, Captain," Jim concluded his report. "The search teams have concluded their sweep of the narrows and the bay. No one found anything. This guy's body has vanished off the face of the earth." 

"Keep digging," Simon ordered. "Contact the university and check out this deal to bring him here. Contact his old university and see how they felt about him coming to the States. Go over to the hotel and check out his room." He paused to think. "Anything else yet on this smuggler who lost his head?" 

Jim shrugged. "He flew into Cascade three days ago and checked into a hotel downtown. His office knew nothing about him stopping here. They have no contacts for him in Cascade. The hotel hasn't seen him in two days. Nobody there noticed him meeting anyone or doing anything unusual. We're going over to check out his room there as well." 

"Right," Simon nodded. "Well, get to it and keep me posted." 

Jim and Blair were busy all morning. They found the headless smuggler's passport in his hotel room, but not much else: a suitcase, some clothes, flight tickets for the end of the week to San Francisco. They didn't find any letters or notes in his briefcase to indicate who he was meeting in Cascade or why he was there. They interviewed the hotel staff, but he'd only stayed there one night and no one had noticed anything unusual about his room or his comings or goings. 

Blair had a class that afternoon, but he arranged for someone else to cover it for him. He didn't want Jim going through Alan Grant's possessions on his own. The possibility of the Sentinel being ambushed by a zone-out was too great if they found that the guy's pheromones were still lingering in the room. Jim insisted that he would be fine, but Blair didn't want to take the chance. He'd never seen Jim react this strongly to someone since that episode with Laura, the beautiful thief. 

Blair knew something was up the minute they walked in the door of the man's hotel room. Jim walked straight to the bed and picked up a discarded blue shirt. To Blair it was like watching a homing pigeon at work. Jim lifted the shirt to within a couple of inches of his face and Blair was shocked to see the big man stagger. 

"Jim!" Blair rushed to his side, but Jim just shrugged him off. "You okay?" 

"Fine, Sandburg," Jim muttered. "I'll check out the luggage, you have a look in his briefcase," he indicated the leather case lying open on the table by the window. 

Blair noticed Jim kept hold of the blue shirt in one hand, even as he rifled through the open suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed. He watched Jim searching through pockets and then turned his attention to the papers in the briefcase. Nothing but relevant correspondence with Rainier, some curriculum outlines and a folder full of copies of research papers that the professor had published over the years. There were no personal letters, no identification, no passport; just the ticket stub from his London flight. 

"Anything?" Jim's deep voice interrupted Blair's search. 

Blair looked up to find Jim standing beside him, still clutching that damn blue shirt. "You okay, Jim? What's with the shirt?" Blair asked with raised eyebrows. He watched as Jim looked down at the shirt in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. Jim threw it towards the bed and turned his back on it. 

"Nothing," Jim mumbled. "Um . . . why don't you go down and check the desk for anything they might have while I finish up in here. I want to have a look through the drawers and the trash, just in case." 

"I can do that," Blair volunteered, not liking the glassy look in the Sentinel's eyes as they slid past, not meeting his. 

"Naw," Jim drawled casually. "I'll look after it. You might miss something that my senses can pick up. You go check at the desk and I'll be done by the time you get back." 

Blair nodded to himself thoughtfully. He walked over to the balcony doors and opened them wide. "Maybe a little fresh air will help, Jim," he suggested. 

"Good idea," Jim mumbled again. He picked up the waste basket from beside the bed and dumped it on the table by the windows. Blair didn't move from his side, so he finally looked up and met his partner's gaze with as calm a demeanor as he could manage under the circumstances. "Go," he gestured towards the door and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine." 

Blair watched Jim pull a latex glove out of his pocket and start to pull it on. Good, he thought. Jim's detective instincts still seemed to be working. For a moment there he had been worried that the man was going to go through the garbage bare-handed. Blair turned and paused at the door for a glance back at the Sentinel's head bent over his task and then left. 

Jim's head came around as he heard the door close. He reached out immediately and closed the balcony doors, peeled off the glove and tossed it with the rest of the garbage back into the basket. He retrieved the blue shirt from the bed and did what he'd been dying to do ever since he'd picked it up. He buried his face in it and breathed in deeply. He felt his legs give out under the sensory rush and sank down weakly on the bed. 

He had an idea and pulled the shirt away from his face to turn and check out the pillow that had been pulled out from under the bedspread. He rolled across the bed, stretching out and buried his face in the pillow. Yes, here too, he sighed, breathing in the man's scent, luxuriating in the feelings filling him. God, it felt good; better than anything had in years. 

He had another idea and headed into the bathroom. Yes! He grabbed the towel hung carelessly over the shower door and buried his face in that. Jim staggered back against the bathroom door, bracing his legs, letting himself feel it all, right down to the hardening of his cock against the fly of his slacks. It had been so long since he had felt this high. It felt so good he wanted it to last forever. Every sense was awake and singing. His palms were tingling from the brush of terrycloth clutched in his hands. He opened his eyes and could see minute flakes of dried skin towelled off after the man's shower. Burying his face again he picked up the faintest trace of male musk where the towel had been rubbed over damp genitals. 

Jim jumped when he heard the clang of the elevator doors opening down the hall. Sandburg? He listened for his guide's distinctive heartbeat. Shit! He looked down at the damp towel clutched in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. What the hell did he think he was doing?! The Sentinel stared at his reflection in the mirrored tile opposite him in shock for a moment, then sprang into motion. He slung the towel hurriedly back over the shower door then strode back into the bedroom and threw the soiled shirt on top of the suitcase. He heard Blair's heartbeat approaching and met his partner just inside the door as it opened. 

Jim cleared his throat as Blair's eyes met his. "Nothing here, Sandburg," he muttered and held the door open as Blair stopped beside him. He watched Blair cast a suspicious glance around the hotel room, noting the closed balcony doors. "Did you come up with anything, Chief?" 

Blair kept his gaze on Jim as he answered. He noted the flushed cheeks and the deep breathing with suspicion, but didn't comment. "Sorry, Jim, the answers are all negative. He didn't leave anything for safekeeping at the desk. Didn't leave any notes for anyone. No messages have come in from anyone except the university. I had a look and they're all from Liz Michaels asking him to call her." 

"Okay," Jim sighed and gestured to the hallway. 

Blair couldn't decide whether the sigh was from frustration or relief, but as he was happy just to get Jim away from there, he left beside his sentinel, not saying a word. They returned to the precinct and Jim immediately disappeared. Blair didn't bother following. He knew that the contents of the hotel room had had a disturbing effect on Jim's sentinel senses, but decided to give him some room to handle it on his own. He was relieved when about ten minutes later Jim returned looking a little dishevelled, but calm; the tell-tale tension of his twitching jaw-muscle gone. 

After a quick lunch, they settled at Jim's desk in the Major Crime bullpen to make some phone calls. They found that the professor's old university wasn't surprised when he left. They couldn't come close to paying the professor what he was offered by Rainier. He'd left his rooms at the university some two weeks before and they had already been sublet. They had no idea where he'd been staying since leaving. They assumed he'd already taken up his post in America. 

The two men discussed their findings with Simon and then made an appointment to see Liz Michaels and break the news about the professor's apparent suicide. Jim and Blair met late in the afternoon with a worried Liz and the Anthro Chair, Dr. Coleman, who were shocked to learn about the incident on the bridge, the explanation for Professor Grant's disappearance and his presumed death by drowning. 

One interesting bit of information did surface from the interview. Liz Michaels had an American contact for Alan Grant: an emergency phone number that turned out to be for a martial arts dojo in Seacouver. Jim called DeSalvo's Gym and spoke to its proprietor, Mr. Duncan MacLeod. Mr. MacLeod told them that his friend Professor Grant hadn't contacted him lately, although he was aware that the professor was moving to the States sometime in the coming months. He promised to call them if his friend contacted him. Jim insisted to Simon later that he didn't want to leave it at that. He argued persuasively that there had to be a link somewhere that they were missing. So Simon agreed to send Jim and Blair to Seacouver to speak with the gym owner personally to see if Mr. MacLeod knew whether Alan Grant and Jacques Cartier were acquainted. 

Blair was worried about Jim's inability to let this case go; to close it down as an unsolved murder - suicide. He was afraid Jim was letting the strength of his memories of the dead man influence his better judgment. He was beginning to believe that Jim didn't want to accept that the man was dead. 

And Blair was absolutely right. Jim refused to believe that he had lost the man who had affected him so deeply before he'd had a chance to find him again. He'd successfully buried that startling memory the first time, but now it was obsessing him to a dangerous degree. He realized it; realized that his emotions were pretty volatile right now. He knew Blair thought the trip to Seacouver would be a wild goose chase. But as all roads to the man in question turned into dead ends, Jim was determined to follow every last lead until he was forced to admit defeat. If Alan Grant was out there to be found, Jim wanted to find him. He consoled himself with the fact that no body had yet been found. That had to be a good sign, not a coincidence. It had to be. 

Blair watched Jim brood all evening. Finally, he had to say something before turning in for the night. They were leaving in the morning to drive the three hours to Seacouver. 

"Jim, I'm worried about you." Blair watched Jim ignore him, continuing to flip through channels on the TV with the remote control. "You are setting yourself up for a fall here, big guy. There isn't anything this MacLeod fellow in Seacouver can tell us. The man is dead, Jim. All we can do is break the news to his friend as gently as possible." 

"You don't understand, Blair," Jim's tone was impatient and full of frustration. 

"Yes, I do," Blair soothed. "I know that this guy has stirred up your senses in a way you've only experienced once before. I know you're finding the memory gnawing at you. I know that being there in his hotel room just about caused a zone-out. I know, Jim," Blair reached out and laid his hand on Jim's shoulder, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. "But making-believe that we're going to find this guy is not a good idea." 

Jim wouldn't meet his eyes. "He can't be dead, Blair," the older man insisted. 

Blair flinched at the pain in that voice. "I know that's what you wish were true, Jim, but you've got to face facts. There's no proof. Nothing. I'm sorry, man. I feel for you, I really do. If I could make things different, find some clue . . . I'd be so happy to see you get that second chance, Jim. But I can't see anything that shows it's ever gonna happen. I'm so sorry, man." He squeezed gently on the broad shoulder again, but Jim didn't turn around. 

Jim was staring across the room and out the glass doors at the night sky as if it had all the answers. "We'll see," he muttered, then returned to surfing TV channels with the remote control. He came across a hockey game and turned the volume up and his hearing down to drown out any more words from his Guide that he really didn't want to hear. 

* * *

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, known to Immortals far and wide as the Highlander, replaced the phone receiver and tapped a pencil on the desk in the dojo office. He headed over to the elevator and ascended to his loft apartment to talk to the man currently lounging on his sofa. 

"I just had a call from the police in Cascade," MacLeod informed his friend, and watched Methos stiffen slightly, but otherwise show no reaction to the news. 

"Oh, yes?" the world's oldest Immortal commented with seemingly casual indifference. 

"It seems Professor Alan Grant is missing. He didn't show up for his interview at Rainier University. His hotel room is deserted. Foul play is suspected. The good professor left my number as a contact with someone at the university. I assured them that I hadn't heard from you in a while, but somehow that didn't seem very reassuring to the detective who called." 

"Did you happen to catch the name of the detective?" Methos asked without looking up. 

"Ellison," MacLeod watched for a reaction and wasn't disappointed when he saw Methos swear inaudibly under his breath and jerk upright on the sofa. "Detective Jim Ellison. I take it you know him." 

"We've met," Methos grunted. 

"Just what have you got yourself involved in this time?" MacLeod asked in a tolerant voice with just a hint of a smirk. 

Methos' glance threw daggers at the Highlander. "Cartier found me there." He raised his hands defensively at Mac's accusing expression. "Hey, I didn't know that the idiot was criminally insane! I let him off lightly in Paris. I thought he'd be grateful and leave me alone. My mistake!" 

"So he found you and you two fought?" Mac pressed for information. 

"Yes. I relieved the fool of his head before he could cause any more trouble," the old man explained with a note of exasperated patience in his voice at having to answer the Highlander's questions. 

"But . . ." Mac prodded. "There's always a 'but' in it where you're concerned," he added with heavy sarcasm. "Someone saw you, right? A cop, for instance?" 

Methos sighed. MacLeod knew him too well. "Yes." 

"Detective Ellison?" Mac asked with raised eyebrows. 

"I'm not sure," Methos confessed. "It could have been him. Someone yelled out 'Cascade PD' just before I jumped." 

"Jumped?" Mac pounced on the word. "What do you mean, 'jumped'?" Methos grinned an evil little grin and Mac winced in anticipation. He didn't think he was going to like this. 

"I jumped off the Cascade Narrows Bridge and washed up on the beach the next morning. I got the hell out of there before the search and rescue guys arrived, but it was touch and go for a while. I could hear the dogs coming in the distance." 

Mac just shook his head back and forth as he studied the old man's smirk. "And you complain about the scrapes that _I_ get into," he mused helplessly. 

"So Professor Alan Grant is no more," Methos concluded the tale. "He killed a complete stranger in a bizarre sword-fight scenario and then committed suicide in a fit of remorse. End of story." 

"Except for one inquisitive detective from Cascade, who is still looking for you." Mac watched his friend's smile die and something strange and unexpected take its place. There was calculation and amusement in the look Methos gave the Highlander as he saw Mac's raised eyebrows. But what else was hiding behind that quirk to the old man's lips? "What?" Mac probed, his curiosity aroused. "How do you know him?" 

"We've met before," Methos confessed. "We were introduced at the university last year." 

"And . . ." Mac tried to draw him out. Methos smiled that Mona Lisa smile that Mac had never seen before. Was that actually a sparkle in those hazel eyes? 

"And he made quite an impression," Methos admitted. He watched the Highlander's eyes widen with shock. "He's tall, good-looking, strong, well-built and exudes this . . ." he hesitated to be frank, but thought, what the hell, this is Mac, after all. "He's got this animal magnetism that is very powerful when it's turned on one full force." 

"You were attracted to him?" Mac's surprise was palpable. Methos didn't answer, just smiled that smile again. "You _wanted_ him?" No answer. "Do you think he was attracted to you?" 

"I don't know," Methos mused. "It certainly felt like it." 

"What happened?" Mac hadn't realized Methos was such a fast worker. 

"Nothing. I've been in Europe, remember?" Methos' tone was wry. 

"Well, you didn't have to be," the Highlander argued. 

"It wouldn't have worked," Methos returned. "He's a cop. It would have been too dangerous." 

"And you never knowingly put yourself in danger," Mac conceded dryly. 

"Well, not very often," Methos reminded his friend, and both of them smiled ruefully as they remembered a few instances where he'd broken his own rules to help MacLeod. 

"Do you think he'll come here?" Mac brooded over the possibility. 

"Probably," Methos acknowledged. "He's a cop. You know . . . decent, caring. He'll want to break the news of my demise to you personally, I imagine." He smiled at Mac. "You'll have to act suitably grief-stricken, I'm afraid." 

* * *

Methos sat in his truck across the street and down about a half-block from the dojo in a borrowed wig, dark glasses and a loud-checked coat. He watched the detective and his shorter companion arrive and enter the dojo. He drank up the sight of the tall lean man's easy loping stride. He felt the sheer animal strength reaching out to him from down the street, it acted that powerfully upon him. 

Many minutes later he watched the two of them emerge from the building and head for their truck. In shock, he saw the taller man's head turn towards the direction where he was parked, as if sensing that someone was watching him. But how could the detective know that? Methos instinctively ducked when he saw the man start to turn, and crouched low in his seat, holding himself still, not daring to breathe as he waited to see if he had been discovered. Finally, he heard two doors slam, an engine start up and then drive away. He quickly started his own vehicle and cautiously eased out into the traffic to follow them. 

He followed the men to the waterfront where they got out to walk along the beach, talking desultorily. He stared at the big man's slouched shoulders; those strong proud shoulders. He watched the shorter man place a small hand in the middle of that broad back and rub soothingly. 

Methos saw Ellison stop and his head droop. The young man beside him moved in closer and wrapped one arm as best he could around his friend's shoulders, giving him a fierce hug as he continued to speak to him urgently. The big man stood still for a long moment, accepting the hug or just listening to the other man's words, then he moved sharply to pull away. From his spot in the parking lot, Methos clearly heard the barked word, "No!" as it echoed across the silent beach. 

The young man with the long curly hair neatly stepped in front of the detective and reached up to grab those broad shoulders in both hands. Methos admired the move. Ellison was big and angry. It took guts and determination to stand up to someone who looked so intimidating. 

From what Methos could see they just stood looking into each other's faces for long minutes. Then the cop surprised his audience by suddenly sweeping the smaller man into a big bear hug. The young man seemed just as surprised, if the look on his face was anything to go by as he was quickly released again. As he watched them, he saw them smile small tentative smiles at each other: one in encouragement, one in acceptance. Then Ellison swung a long arm around the other's shoulders and they continued their walk down the beach. 

Methos found the whole exchange very enlightening and came to a decision. It was a foolhardy decision no doubt, and one he would probably regret, but nevertheless, something stronger than common sense prompted him to action as he stared at that tall figure slowly strolling along the seashore, pulling the smaller along with him. 

Without giving himself time for second thoughts, Methos reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the back and then hurried stealthily over to the detective's parked truck and carefully opened the door. Good thing it wasn't locked, he grinned to himself. 

* * *

Blair trailed after Jim as the older man headed for the truck. He hoped his words and actions had been of some comfort. Their last lead had just come to a dead end, and he hated knowing that he had been right. Jim was not taking the disappointment well and his frustration with the outcome of their investigation was bringing out emotions that he seemed afraid to express as anything other than anger. 

If Blair hadn't been so worried about Jim's state-of-mind, he might have let himself feel jealous. Hell, Jim had only met the guy once, just to shake hands, but the way he was acting you'd have thought he lost a lover! Blair clamped down on his own feelings of frustration. Now was not the time to be worrying about _his_ unrequited feelings for his partner. Jim needed a friend right now, not an emotional opportunist. 

Ellison had reached his truck and pulled open the driver's side door. He immediately spotted the card and read the name printed on it. Without thinking, his hand covered it and he slipped it, unseen by his partner, into his jacket pocket. It burned there against his side. His hand burned where it had touched the small card. He pulled himself into his seat, closed his door and wrapped his suddenly shaking hands around the steering wheel, trying to control the uncomfortable pounding of his heart and the wave of heat making him break out in a sweat. 

Blair did up his seat belt and then stared in startled amazement at Jim's clenched hands on the steering wheel. He'd thought that the man had calmed considerably since they'd arrived at the beach. What had brought the tension back so suddenly? 

"Jim? You okay?" Blair asked carefully. 

Jim took a deep steadying breath. There was still a faint hint of that scent in the air of the truck's closed interior. It didn't help matters. "Yeah, I'm fine," he tried to keep his voice steady. "Why don't we go find someplace to eat. You hungry yet?" 

"Sure," Blair went with the suggestion. Maybe Jim was just hungry. "If we eat now we'll have all evening to drive back to Cascade." He took Jim's silence as agreement. Within a couple of blocks of the waterfront they found a nice-looking place that advertised steaks and seafood. Jim asked Blair to order him a steak and excused himself to go to the men's room. 

Jim braced himself against the stall door to steady his legs and reached into his pocket to pull out the small business-sized card. Professor Alan Grant's name was printed on it, along with Rainier's address and telephone. There was no personal information on it so Jim turned it over and focused on the message scribbled on the back: an address, a time, and the instructions to come alone. He stuffed the card back in his pocket and left the stall to wash his hands thoroughly. There was no way he was going to be able to eat with that scent on him. 

Jim was quiet throughout the meal, so Blair just filled in the silence with chatter as he had a thousand times before. He watched Jim push his food around on his plate and drink a beer. When he ordered the second one, Blair spoke up. 

"Jim, man, talk to me," Blair pleaded. Jim met his eyes and Blair was shocked to see an expression of steely determination in them. Jim had evidently come to some kind of decision, but about what? 

"Blair, do you trust me?" was the extraordinary thing Jim asked. 

Blair slumped back against the seat of the booth they were sitting in as if a giant hand had pushed him. His breath whooshed out of him in shock and he stared into the eyes of his sentinel. He hadn't seen that look in Jim's eyes, or heard that question, outside of a life or death situation. That he should be seeing it now was incredible. "Jim . . ." he began to express his bewilderment. 

"Just answer the question, Chief," Jim interrupted him in a quiet tone. 

"With my life," Blair answered without any further hesitation. 

"I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Blair," Jim explained. "I'm going to ask you to do it without questioning me. I'm going to ask you to trust me to know what I'm doing and to wait for me without panicking or getting into trouble." 

"Wait for you?" Blair jumped at the words. "What do you mean?" 

Jim's eyes were ice-blue and enigmatic. "We're staying the night in Seacouver." 

"We are?" Blair's eyes widened in disbelief. "Why?" 

"I can't tell you why right now, Blair," Jim looked away from his partner's incredulous gaze. "I'm going to take you to a nice hotel and get us a room. You're going to watch some TV and order something you want from room service and then get a good night's sleep." He looked back into those deep blue eyes across from him. "I may be back tonight, I may not. I may be back tomorrow morning, or maybe not until tomorrow afternoon. When I get back I will answer any questions that you have to the best of my ability. I just can't answer any of them now, because I don't have the answers yet." 

"But you're going somewhere tonight, or to see someone tonight, where you hope to get those answers," Blair finished. After almost three years solving cases together, he knew his sentinel pretty well by now and knew when the man was finished with a case. And Jim definitely wasn't finished with this case yet. Maybe he wanted to grill that MacLeod character on his own. Maybe he thought he could get some information out of the man that he wouldn't reveal with a witness present. Blair could understand that. 

Jim contemplated Blair's serious expression. Yes, he could trust him. He had known that he could, he had just wanted the reassurance. "That's about it," Jim agreed, having no intention at this point of admitting just exactly what he was proposing to do tonight. "And whatever I find out, and whatever I pass on to you, it stays between you and me," he added, watching his guide's eyes. "Between Sentinel and Guide," he paused to let the implications sink in. "As far as Cascade PD is concerned, this case is closed." 

Blair nodded his agreement. Whatever was going to go down tonight, it was for Jim's personal peace of mind, and if Jim passed on any information gained, it was going to be in confidence. "The case is closed, Jim," Blair assured his partner. They exchanged knowing glances and Blair watched Jim sigh in relief. 

Continued in part [two](rightman1.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to the length of this story, it has been split into two parts

## The Right Man

by Bette Bourgeois

Author's webpage: <http://arii.simplenet.com>

Continued from part one. 

* * *

The Right Man - part two  
by Bette Bourgeois 

Jim tucked Blair into a nice hotel, then gassed up the truck for the trip back to Cascade the next day, and bought a street map of Seacouver. Half an hour later he was entering the lobby of an exclusive apartment building on the outskirts of the city and pressing the intercom button for the penthouse suite. A husky baritone with a British accent that he had only heard once before saying 'nice to meet you' answered the summons. 

"Come on up," the voice said. 

Jim knocked on the door of the penthouse suite. It opened and there he stood: tall, handsome, relaxed and smiling. Alan Grant motioned Jim inside with one hand and Jim went. He had seemingly wandered into the lap of luxury with a magnificent view of Seacouver and the harbour. A playful push from behind had him falling onto a soft leather couch. He let himself fall and then watched at his companion sat down as well and turned to face him. There was a knowing glint in the hazel eyes; a knowing smile just teasing around the edges of that mobile mouth. Jim felt the familiar wave of sensations roll over him and smiled back. 

"I knew you couldn't be dead. Fate just couldn't be that cruel," Jim insisted. 

Methos chuckled, surprised and flattered. "What do I call you, Detective Ellison?" 

"Jim," Ellison answered, letting the sound of the man's voice seduce his enhanced hearing. "And what do I call you, now that you're officially dead?" he teased. 

Methos laughed. Oh ye gods and holy men, he mused in wonder. Why did I run away from this man? Fool! Crazy old fool! "You can call me Adam for now. It's the name I usually fall back on when tragedy strikes." He wagged his eyebrows at Ellison and watched the man respond with slight a shake of his head and the most delicious low masculine laughter. Methos' skin tingled just listening to it. He wanted to hear the name 'Methos' on this man's lips. 

"Adam what?" Jim asked. 

"Pierson, actually," he was told. "Adam Pierson, at your service." Methos grinned. 

Jim relaxed back against the comfortable leather and studied the man lounging in front of him. "Adam Pierson," he tested the feel of it on his tongue. "What were you doing on that bridge in the middle of the night?" He watched the other man turn away from him for a moment and then get up and walk over to the windows that overlooked the Seacouver skyline. 

"It's a long story," Methos used the tried and true stall tactic. 

Jim gave him the classic comeback. "I've got all night." 

Methos turned. "You have?" 

Jim admired the tall spare silhouette against the sky. The blue shirt and grey slacks the man wore were casual but elegant. "I have nowhere else I need to go and nobody else I'd rather talk to than you." Then Jim let the smile fall from his face. "And I don't intend to leave this apartment until you've answered some of my questions." 

"You know," Methos began conversationally. "I don't have to answer your questions." 

"No," Jim agreed. "You don't. But you will." 

"I will?" Methos questioned, turning to give the big cop an enigmatic look. "Why should I?" 

"Because you don't want me to leave any more than I want to leave," Jim told him. He got up and joined the man at the window. "So answer the question." Jim stared at him until his piercing blue eyes were met by opaque hazel ones. 

Methos sighed. Those eyes were so blue, so clear. "Cartier picked the time and place. I accepted his challenge and showed up. It was his head or mine. I was the better swordsman. He lost his head. I couldn't let you arrest me, so the only alternative was to disappear, which I did." 

Jim studied the man's beautiful eyes and the set of his sleek jaw. He listened to the music of his heartbeat, trying to concentrate on reading its steady rhythm and not on feeling the effect it was having on his own. This Adam Pierson was telling the absolute truth. But it still left Jim with more questions than answers. "How did you survive the fall from the bridge?" 

Methos was held entranced by the sheer willpower of the man; as if the detective felt he could drag the truth out of him. Well, it was working, wasn't it? "The fall killed me." He watched the man's eyes narrow in watchful concentration. "I washed up on Cascade Beach around dawn the next morning and got the hell out of there before Search and Rescue could find me." He marvelled at the man's complete stillness; how Ellison was focused entirely on his own self. It was a heady experience to have that powerful male animal giving him all his attention, so he told his secret. "I'm Immortal." The words hung in the air between them, unadorned and unexplained. 

"You're Immortal," Jim repeated as if he didn't understand the significance of the word. He watched as his companion left his side, walked across the room and entered the kitchen that he could see just past the island separating it from the living area. He heard the clink of metal on metal and then Adam returned with a carving knife in his hand. He stopped in front of Jim and held his hand out, palm up, flat out, in front of him. Jim watched in amazed horror as Adam cut deeply across his palm with one quick slice. Adam winced and gave a sharp hiss of pain, but did not cry out. 

"Shit!" Jim exclaimed and looked around frantically for something to bind it, but he was stayed by a steady hand grabbing his arm. 

"Look," was all Methos said, his eyes never leaving Jim's face as the blood welled up across his hand and dripped between his fingers onto the carpet. 

Jim stared back into those intense eyes and then down at the gaping wound on the hand in front of him. Only it wasn't a gaping wound any longer. Adam pulled out a towel he had tucked into the waistband of his slacks and wiped his hand off carefully and slowly. Jim saw a red line; all that remained of the wound. In another moment the red line had disappeared. Automatically he reached out his fingers and ran them over the spot where it had been. Even as he ran his fingers over the line where a scar should have been forming, he could feel it disappearing. Soon the skin of the palm was as smooth and taut as it had been before the cut. He looked up into those hazel eyes. 

"Immortal," Jim repeated again. He watched Adam nod. "I need to sit down." Jim walked slowly across the room and sank down onto the comfortable leather seat. 

Methos followed Jim back to the couch. He settled beside the detective close enough to touch, but not quite doing so. "I can't let myself attract attention or publicity of any kind," he continued his explanation. "I can't let myself be incarcerated. It's too dangerous." 

"So Alan Grant is dead, but Adam Pierson is alive and well," Jim concluded in a dazed voice, desperately trying to take it all in. Immortal. Never dying. He looked up. "Who is Adam Pierson?" 

Methos shrugged. "He works for a shadowy organization that watches Immortals in secret. It's called the Watchers. They keep track of all the Immortals who are alive: who they fight, who wins, who loses. They're glorified record keepers; historians if you like." His smile turned cynical. "Glorified peeping toms, I've always said, but it's useful to be on the inside of such an organization. I can make sure no one finds me and I can control what kind of information that the Watchers gather about me." 

"They don't know you're Immortal, I take it?" Jim's question was amused. He was slightly amazed at the man's audacity. It reminded him of some of Blair's wilder escapades. Or for that matter, Jim thought wryly, it sounded like some of the recent undercover risks he'd taken himself. 

"No, they don't," Methos agreed. "I'd be a dead duck if they found out." 

"You lead a very dangerous life," Jim concluded. His tone couldn't help but sound critical of the man's risky choice of occupation. 

"So do you," Methos pointed out. 

Jim sighed. He couldn't argue with that one. "Yeah." 

"We have something in common then," Methos drawled. 

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find other things we have in common besides that," Jim smiled. He was beginning to think he had lost control of the conversation. And the weird part about it was, he could barely remember why the questions had been so important. Right now he was being overwhelmed by sheer sensory overload: the cadence of that sexy voice had set up a thrumming along his nerves, the tempo of the heartbeat had altered slightly as had the breathing, the eyes were steady on his, almost hypnotically so, and the heady masculine scent wafting so tantalizingly toward him from that warm body . . . 

It was the opening Methos had been hoping for ever since the detective had started asking his questions. There was no way the 5000 year old man wanted to get into a discussion of the morality of Immortal beheadings with this cop, no matter how sympathetic he seemed. 

"When was the last time you had a male lover?" Methos deftly asked his own question. Time to get the encounter back on _his_ track. 

Jim was not offended. He liked the surprising bluntness of the question. He liked the speculative gleam in the hazel eyes even better. "When I was a teenager. And you?" 

"Couple of centuries ago," was his answer. 

"What have you been waiting for?" Jim asked. 

"What have _you_ been waiting for?" Methos threw the question back archly. 

"The right man," Jim confessed quietly, feeling amusement fade into desire. 

"How did I know that's what you were going to say?" Methos mused with a grin. 

"Because that was your answer too, wasn't it?" Jim could sense the pheromones getting stronger all the time. He inhaled deeply of the man's scent and let the pleasure wash through him. God, that felt good. 

Methos watched the other man's eyes dilate, watched his nostrils flare. He felt his own skin start to tingle, his cock to fill pleasurably. "Yes . . ." he agreed, dazed and confused by the powerful response he was having to this man. It was incredible. 

"I want to taste you so badly it's killing me," Jim confessed suddenly in a voice gone hoarse. 

"So what are you waiting for?" Methos felt that voice scraping along his nerves. The room was too hot and his pants felt too tight and his mouth had gone dry. 

Jim watched a tongue wet those lips. He was drowning in the scent of the other man's arousal. He moved forward, both hands reaching out to cup the sharp-featured face and pull it to meet his. He closed his lips over Adam's and let instinct take care of the details. 

Methos closed his eyes and let Jim take complete possession of his mouth. He had no problem giving control of the kiss over to this man. He knew he could trust this big intense cop, he had that trustworthy look about him. They were on Methos' turf, and besides, it was _heaven_. And he just knew it was going to get better. His cock knew it too. It surged in anticipation, jammed up against the fly of his slacks, wanting the wet heat of that fabulous mouth on it soon. 

The Sentinel wanted to eat this lover he had found; a lover who seemed to have been created especially for his satisfaction. He made love to that thin-lipped mouth with a passion he could only remember from a dream. He kissed and sucked. He nipped and licked. He bathed the surfaces of that hot mouth with his saliva and then went searching for the taste of his lover's. Yes, this man was going to be his lover; maybe not for long, but for as long as he could manage it. 

The next few minutes passed in a blur. The blue shirt was undone and slipped slowly off strong-boned shoulders. Jim's jacket fell to the floor quickly. His sweater followed. His t-shirt was pulled over his head too, mussing his hair. 

Methos found himself lying flat, his back pressed to cool leather, the heavy weight of Jim Ellison settling between his legs and he let one leg drop off the seat. His foot came to rest on the floor as his fly was opened. His mouth sucked on a hot tongue that had been exploring his and a warm hand slid into his boxers and caressed his aching erection. Methos moaned and dug hard fingers into the harder muscles of the other man's back. All that leashed strength beneath his fingertips and wrapped around his manhood had him groaning deep in his chest with hunger. 

Jim Ellison was drowning in the subtle flavours of his lover's mouth, drowning in the silky feel of the flesh in his warm hand, drowning in the sensation of the hot breath wafting over his face. He pulled back slightly to lean on one elbow and gaze down the length of the man beneath him. He let the scent of sweat and musk and pre-ejaculate engulf him. He felt one overriding hunger take over his mind, and was lost to it. 

Methos moaned as his hips were lifted by the man now kneeling over him. He wanted that hot mouth on his again, but completely forgot about it as his pants were unceremoniously yanked off, boxers and all, and that hot mouth took him into it, sliding him down into a whirlpool of suction and ecstasy. It happened embarrassingly fast. Frantically he pushed into that heat, felt himself sinking further and further and further until he was lost and shuddering and pulsing, thrashing and whimpering, completely mindless as the pleasure in his body took over the world. 

Jim had done this countless times as a horny teenager. There was a trick to it that he remembered instinctively. He swallowed his lover's cock and kept swallowing until he had his nose buried in pubic hair. His lover thrust once, almost choking him, and then the rich fluid of his lover's passion flowed into him and filled his senses to the brim and over. 

Methos' cock twitched one last time and finally relaxed deep in Jim's throat. He lay back with eyes closed, reeling from the act, his heart pounding painfully, his breathing ragged. His lover didn't move, didn't release him from those hot depths where he was still buried. Methos craned his neck curiously, but all he could see was the top of Jim's head. 

"Jim?" Methos undulated his hips gently to dislodge his lover. Jim still didn't move. "Jim?!" Methos barked sharply, alarmed at the man's unnatural stillness. He curled his body and sat up, hands reaching for the other man's shoulders. One push didn't budge the weight of the head in his lap. Using the foot he still had on the floor he bent, pressing his weight over his hips, and heaved the big man away from his lap and over onto his side. With a wet sound his limp cock slipped out of his lover's slack mouth. He pressed Jim back against the leather couch-back and saw the closed eyes, the open lips from which his own semen was escaping in a thin stream to drip down that strong chin. He placed a hand on the well-muscled chest to check for a heartbeat. It was there, slow and steady. 

"Jim?" Methos slapped Ellison's cheek gently. There was no response. "Jim?!" he tried again, louder and with a stronger slap. Nothing. Shit! "What the hell is going on, Jim?" Methos ground out in anger and fear. He got up and paced naked in front of the couch, staring at his unresponsive lover. Shit! Shit! Shit! What did he do now?! 

Methos dressed with quick nervous movements. He grabbed the blood-streaked cloth from the coffee table and wiped at the semen dribbling from Jim's lips. He lifted the heavy lids over the blue eyes. No response. He slapped the sculpted cheek hard. Nothing. He pressed his hand to the man's chest. Heart still beating. He pressed against his jugular. Steady pulse. What was going on?! 

He slumped down onto the floor beside the couch, wracking his brains for an explanation, a plan of action, anything to still the growing panic in his chest. Maybe it's a seizure of some sort. There were no convulsions, no change in Jim's breathing, his heartbeat was steady. What else could it be? 

Sandburg! Methos jumped up and reached for the phone. Sandburg would know if Jim was subject to seizures or heart trouble. He stared at the phone in his hand. Where was Jim's companion? Think Methos, he chided himself. Check the man's pockets. Yes. Methos rifled through Jim's pant pockets, moving the man completely onto his back. He was rewarded with a room key, stamped with the name of one of Seacouver's finest hotels. 

He dialled. "Hello, do you have a guest registered under the name of Ellison or Sandburg?" Methos spoke quietly to the receptionist. "Can you ring that room for me, please?" 

Blair had barely replaced the receiver on the phone in his hotel room, after ordering a snack from room service, when the instrument rang right under his palm. "Hello?" he questioned, wondering if they were calling to announce some problem with his order. 

"Am I speaking to Blair Sandburg?" a voice with a British inflection asked. 

Blair froze when he heard that accent. It couldn't be! "Yes," he replied cautiously. "Who is this? How did you get this number?" 

"Sandburg!" the voice was urgent. "Look, I don't have time to go into it right now. Okay? I need to know if Jim has seizures or heart trouble." 

"Jim?!" Blair immediately panicked. "What's wrong with Jim? Is he okay? Where is he? Who is this? What's happened to Jim? What the hell is going on?" The questions exploded out of him, fast and furious. He heard a deep sigh from the person on the other end of the line and shouted angrily, "What have you done to Jim, you bastard?!" 

Methos had no patience with panicking professors. "Shut up, Sandburg, and listen!" he grated sharply. "I'm trying to help the man, not hurt him. I need your assistance here, but I can't get it if you're going to go off the deep end. Now just give me a minute to explain, okay?" He glanced over to Jim, but the man hadn't moved a muscle. 

Blair tried to calm himself; tried to get a handle on his anger and fear. "What's going on? Where's Jim?" he demanded. 

"Jim is with me and he is safe." Methos spoke crisply. He didn't have time for this. He needed information. "He is laying comfortably, but is completely unresponsive to anything I do to try to rouse him. His eyes don't respond and neither do his muscles. He isn't having any difficulty breathing. His heartbeat is steady. He's not convulsing. What the heck is wrong with him? Do you know? Has this happened before? What do I do? Do I need to get him to a hospital?" 

Blair listened to the man rattle off details about Jim's condition, his panicked fear turning into deep concern and then certainty and calm. Sounded like a zone. Okay, Jim was fine, if it was just a zone. He believed the other man when he said that Jim was safe and comfortable. They just had to figure out how to pull him out of it. 

"No," Blair's calm voice answered finally. "He doesn't need to go to the hospital. I can bring him out of it. It's happened before and I know what to do. Where are you? I can be there in a cab within minutes," he insisted. 

"No." Methos ignored the sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. "You tell me what to do and I'll do it.You're not coming here under any circumstances. It's too dangerous." 

"I thought you said he was safe," Blair demanded. 

"He is. But I don't want anyone else involved. Not even you, Professor Sandburg." Methos' tone was flat and final. 

"Who are you?" Blair probed, trying to confirm his suspicions. 

"You don't need to know that either. All you need to know is that Jim came here of his own free will and he is unharmed. Now tell me what to do to bring him out of this seizure," Methos demanded in his turn. 

"His own free will?" Blair echoed. "That's what _you_ say," he snorted in disgust. 

"Well, you'll just have to trust that I'm telling you the truth. Won't you?" Methos sneered. How dare this kid question his word? Who would have thought he'd be so obstinate? 

"Look," Blair wouldn't give in that easily. "I don't know you from Adam. You could be lying through your teeth for all I know. I want to see Jim. I'm not putting him at risk by trusting you to do what's needed. How do I know you won't hurt him anyway?" 

Methos pulled the phone away from his face and stared at it for a long moment in slow simmering fury. Then he deliberately counted to ten while listening to the frantic calls of 'hello? hello?' that came from the other end of the line. 

"You listen to me and you listen well, little man," Methos' voice was deadly in its calmness. "If you ever want to see Jim Ellison again, alive and well and unharmed, you will tell me exactly what I need to know and you will tell me now. Otherwise, who knows _what_ might befall the good detective." There was silence on the other end now. "Am I making myself perfectly clear, Professor?" 

The silence on Blair's end grew as he frantically examined options and discarded them. Jim! He railed against his partner. What the hell have you gone and got yourself into now?! 

"I'm waiting," the other man's ominous tone was chilling. 

Blair calmed himself with another deep breath. It didn't look like he had any choice. This bastard held all the cards. "Jim is suffering from a reaction to too much stimulus to one or more of his senses. It's called a zone-out," he tried to explain as simply as he could. He didn't know how much or how little he could get away with telling. 

"What?" Methos asked. "Too much stimulus? Why didn't he just get a headache? Are you sure about this?" 

"Look," Blair argued. "How well do you know Jim?" There was silence at the other end. "Well, if you're who I think you are, then you don't know him well at all." Still more silence met him. "But," he continued, "if he's there with you now of his own free will then I guess he must trust you." He sighed at the continued silence; no agreement, no denial. This guy was one tough nut. "Okay, if he trusts you, then I guess it's okay to tell you about his senses." 

"His senses?" Methos jumped on the explanation. 

"Jim has enhanced senses; all five of them. He doesn't always have complete control over them. Sometimes they take over control of _him_. That's called a zone-out and it sounds like that's what's happened to him. One of his senses has been overwhelmed to the exclusion of his others. Or maybe two of them have ganged up on him. It's hard to tell without seeing him. That's why I wanted to come there. Not to intrude on anything you and Jim are involved in." 

"What do you need to know?" Methos asked, his curiosity powerfully aroused. He glanced over at Jim. Enhanced senses? All of them? How intriguing. How unusual. Shit! He'd never heard of anything like it. Jim Ellison must be almost one of a kind, a natural marvel. He laughed softly to himself. Even more unique than being an Immortal. 

"What sense was he concentrating on when you first noticed him being non-responsive? Was he studying something with his eyesight?" Blair prompted. 

"No," Methos answered. "His eyes have been closed the whole time." 

"Was there any unusual sound or music that he was listening to at the time?" Blair continued. "Did he seem to be listening intently to something that you couldn't hear?" 

"He can hear things outside normal hearing?" Methos thought about the possibilities inherent in that kind of ability. 

"Yes," Blair agreed. "He can also see things outside the realm of normal sight and his sense of touch is extremely sensitive. Was he touching something with an unusual texture that would lead him to study it too closely?" 

Methos thought about what Jim had been touching at the time this happened. The man's hands had been clasped fiercely around the flesh of Methos' hard thighs. He had noticed the slight bruising of fingerprints on his flesh before pulling on his clothes. Still, there wasn't anything unusual about the texture of his skin as far as he knew. "I don't think that's it." 

"Why not?" Blair demanded. 

"He wasn't touching anything unusual. Nothing that he hasn't touched before," Methos ground out with discomfort. He wasn't going to explain what he and Jim had been doing to this young man, no matter how nosy he got. 

"Look," Blair insisted. "You've got to help me out here, man! Was he eating something? Were you having dinner? I know he was having some pretty strong reactions to you with his sense of smell while we were checking out your hotel room here in Cascade. Do you think he may have been close enough to you to overdose on your scent?" 

"What are you implying?" Methos drawled. 

"I'm not implying anything, man," Blair snorted. "I'm trying to help Jim. Now are you going to cooperate? Or do I have to call the cops and get them to help me find you?" 

"You wouldn't be able to do that and you know it," Methos snorted back. 

"Well, help me then!" Blair lost it. "If you care about him half as much as I do, you'll do something to help me help Jim!" 

Methos sighed and stared at Jim. "He did have something in his mouth," he grudgingly admitted, hoping that the young man wouldn't ask what. "And he was close enough to be very aware of any scent that I was giving off." 

Blair thought about that for a moment and thought about the reactions Jim had been having to this man. "Why didn't you just say you were having sex?" Blair asked sarcastically. 

"Because it's none of your business," Methos retorted angrily. "Now what do I do?" 

"Okay," Blair mused aloud, ignoring the other man's words. "We have to bring taste and smell back on line. That means we have to find something with a strong sharp taste and something with an overwhelming smell that Jim can't ignore, to give his senses a wake-up-call, so-to-speak. While you're doing that, talk to him, touch him and keep increasing the sensory stimulation until he responds. It may take a couple of minutes so keep trying. Now, what have you got? Anything sour to the taste or overpoweringly sweet? Any ammonia to wave under his nose?" 

"I'll see what's in the kitchen," Methos murmured, his mind already on the task. 

"I'll stay on the line," Blair informed the man in a firm voice. "Don't hang up!" 

"Whatever," Methos grunted and sat the receiver down on the table, before heading for the kitchen. Nothing seemed suitable. There was no way he was going to stick an onion into Jim Ellison's mouth. The man would kill him when he came around, he grinned to himself, feeling much more confident now that he knew what was wrong. Just think: his lover had been overwhelmed by _his_ taste and/or smell. How gratifying, even if it was a little frightening. He wondered if a tried-and-true remedy for bringing people around from a faint would work. After all, a faint was just a reaction to overstimulation too, wasn't it? Close enough. 

He returned to the living room and poured a glass of whiskey. He propped Jim up against the back of the couch cushions and holding the slack jaw open, poured some of the liquid in and tipped Jim's head back to force it down his throat. 

"Jim," he slapped Jim's cheek after he'd gotten a little of the liquid into Jim's mouth. "Jim!" he spoke sharply and gave the man's cheek another sharp slap. "Wake up, Jim. Come on. Wake up here. You've been out long enough and it's time to open up those gorgeous blue eyes and apologizefor scaring the wits out of me." 

The Sentinel was floating in a haze of pleasure with the taste of his lover in his mouth and his lover's pheromones making his head swim. Suddenly a bolt of pure liquid fire poured into his throat making it spasm. He choked and gasped for breath. He heard his name and a sharp slap stung his cheek as he tried to bring his senses on line. His blue eyes flew open to gaze deeply into hazel ones only inches away. "What the hell?!" Jim sputtered and choked, then swallowed convulsively on the fire in his mouth and throat. "What's going on?" he gasped at his lover, who was grim-faced and angry-looking. 

"That's what I'd like to know, Ellison," Methos grated out. "You've been out of it for at least twenty minutes. How the hell do you think _I_ feel? We were in the middle of having sex, for crying out loud!" he stormed, all of his relief pouring out in ire. 

Jim stared into his lover's eyes in shock. Memory flooded back. Oh, Jesus, he groaned silently. I was . . . Shit! I was sucking him off and . . . What the hell?! Oh, damn, it had to be a zone-out. How the hell do I explain this?! 

"Damn, I'm sorry, Adam," his eyes pleaded with the hard hazel ones in front of him. In relief he saw them soften and the sharp lines of the face relax. 

"It's a good thing I kept my wits about me, lover," Methos joked with a wry grimace. "You might have asphyxiated if I hadn't pulled you off!" 

Jim blushed a deep red. He could feel the heat of it pouring off his face. "Oh, God . . ." he groaned in embarrassment. 

Methos chuckled. "I found your hotel room key in your pocket and called your friend to see if he could tell me what was going on. He's still on the line," Methos gestured to the table and the phone receiver lying on it. "You'd better talk to him and let him know you're all right. I don't think he trusts me an inch," he said with an enigmatic little smile. 

Jim's jaw gaped open stupidly. "You called Blair?!" he exclaimed finally. At Adam's nod, he groaned again. "Oh, God. What did you tell him?" He rubbed his hands over his face, trying not to make it too obvious that he wanted to hide behind them and never come out. 

"I didn't give him any details." Methos took pity on Jim and tried to reassure him. "From what I told him, he figured out you had been overwhelmed by either your sense of taste or smell. I figured a good shot of whiskey should take care of it, if I could get it into you without killing you," he smirked. 

"He told you about my senses?" Jim just shook his head in confusion. Blair must have felt pretty desperate for him to have divulged the secret. "I guess I'd better talk to him." He took the receiver from the other man's hand. "Blair?" 

Blair had been waiting on the other end of the line for what seemed like ages. He paced back and forth by the bed as far as the phone cord would allow. He could hear voices in the background on the other end and was about to start screaming into his end when Jim's voice came over the line, sounding tired and strained. 

"Jim!" Blair cried out in relief. "Are you all right?" 

"Yeah, I'm all right, Blair. I'm sorry he called you and got you all upset." 

"Jim, you zoned. I should have been there," Blair insisted. 

"Blair, I appreciate your concern. I appreciate you helping bring me around. But this is something I can handle on my own." 

"Oh _really_?" Blair's voice dripped sarcasm mixed with anger. 

"Blair, I'm sorry. What else can I say? I should have realized that this might happen, after the stuff going on with the pheromones. I should have told him about it. That was my mistake and it won't happen again, I promise." 

"Are you coming back here tonight?" Blair's question was quietly concerned. 

Jim looked over at the man on the couch. He was gracing Jim with a quietly concerned expression as well, but there was also a warmth and humour that drew the Sentinel. "No," Jim answered Blair simply. He heard his partner sigh into the phone. 

"Well, I guess I'll see you sometime tomorrow then?" Blair asked. 

"I'll be there by lunch, Chief," Jim assured him. "Meet you in the hotel restaurant at noon, okay? Maybe I can persuade you-know-who to come with me." He smiled questioningly at the other man, who just stared back without answering. Jim rang off and returned to the couch, slipping down opposite Adam. "I owe you an apology. What happened . . . that was unforgivable." 

"No, not exactly unforgivable," Methos mused. "From what Sandburg told me, I understand that sometimes it's out of your control. But I agree, that you should have warned me about the possibility. Although I can certainly understand why you didn't." 

"Can you?" Jim was surprised at Adam's easy acceptance. "I've never told anyone about my senses who didn't absolutely need to know. Right now, only my father, my captain and my partner know about them." 

"Sandburg's your partner?" Methos was surprised. "I didn't know he was a police officer. I thought he was an anthropology professor." 

"He is," Jim sighed. "It's another one of those long stories." 

Methos smiled. "It's your turn." 

Jim slumped back against the soft cushions and started at the beginning. "I've had enhanced senses since I was a kid, but my father told me to suppress them. He figured I'd get nothing but grief if anyone knew. So I did what he asked." Jim took a deep calming breath before continuing. "I was in the Army Special Forces before becoming a cop. I was in a helicopter crash that killed my team and left me stranded in the jungles of Peru for 18 months. While I was there, my enhanced senses reactivated and I used them almost naturally for the first time in years." He glanced over at his companion for a moment, but found nothing but deep absorption and interest on the other man's face. 

"When I was finally rescued I just naturally suppressed them again. It wasn't a conscious thing. I just didn't use them any more. Everything stayed that way until a couple of years ago. I was on a stake-out in the forest near Cascade and for some reason, out of the blue, they came back on-line again. All of them." Jim ran his hands over his face, thinking back to that time. "I freaked." He looked at Adam and shrugged. "I didn't remember using them as a kid. I barely remembered using them in the jungle. I didn't know how to control them. They started controlling me and I was scared out of my mind." He swallowed, shifting uncomfortably, grateful for the other man's calm reaction. "I went to the hospital for tests and that's where I met Blair. He was tipped off by a nurse friend of his who was helping him by looking out for patients having sensory problems. He had been studying people with enhanced senses and he knew what I was. He called me a sentinel. Have you heard of sentinels?" 

Methos was frowning, trying to dredge up a memory. "The term sounds familiar. Someone wrote about them once; some British explorer, I think." 

"Right!" Jim smiled. "Burton wrote about them. Blair has a copy of his work. Every sentinel had a guide who acted as back-up in case of zone-outs. They worked as a team, like Blair and I do now. It's gotten to the point that Blair knows more about my senses and how they work than I do. He rides as a police observer officially, but unofficially, he's my partner. I can't do my job without him now." 

"Enhanced senses, sentinel instincts . . . No wonder you became a cop." Methos just stared. "That is the strangest, most unusual and completely fascinating thing I've heard in a long time. And believe me, I've seen a lot in my lifetime." 

Jim's mind locked on the information. "Just how long has that lifetime been, if you don't mind my asking? You mentioned centuries before. Do you measure your life in centuries?" The Sentinel's mind boggled at the concept. Immortality itself was hard enough to swallow. 

"No," Methos shrugged. "In millennia." 

Jim's mouth dropped open. He stared. He blinked, trying to take in the information. "Millennia? As in thousands of years?" He watched Adam nod casually. "How many?" 

"About five," Methos answered. 

"I can't imagine that," Jim was shaking his head in wonder. "I can't even begin to imagine that." He stared at the warm, living, breathing man in front of him. He thought about living that many years, about the world slowly changing around one, about people you know and love dying. "How is it that you are still sane, Adam?" 

"That's a good question," his lover smiled ruefully. "One I can't answer. And the name, in case you want to know it, is actually Methos. At least, that's the first name I remember using. It's Greek. I don't remember what my name was during my mortal lifetime. I don't remember anything about that time at all. I may not have had a name." 

"You were mortal once . . . Methos?" Jim stumbled over the unfamiliarity of it. He was trying to remember everything this man told him, trying to fit it in with his impressions of the man sitting in front of him: his lover. "How did you become Immortal?" 

"None of us really knows, Jim. We're all foundlings. Even if we are brought up in a family, they never turn out to be our natural families. We don't know what we are until we wake up after our first death. And thereafter, each time we die, our bodies heal themselves and we live again. It's a very mysterious process and believe me a very disconcerting one as well. I've gotten used to it over time; getting killed, waking up again. The only way my life can be ended permanently is to take my head." 

"The fight on the bridge!" Jim suddenly felt another piece of the puzzle of this man fall into place. "That's why you fight with swords, right?" Jim's gaze narrowed on the small nod of Methos' head. "Why did he want to kill you? Were you enemies?" 

Methos sighed. "Not in the way that you understand the concept. All Immortals are enemies to each other. We're caught up in the Game. Sometimes there's no choice but to fight and let fate make the choice, live or die." 

"I don't understand," Jim conceded. "What kind of game? Killing people is no game." 

Methos snorted in amusement. "I admit it's a pretty arcane idea and most of us have no idea why it is the way it is, or how it all began. The Game's purpose at one time may have been to protect humanity. It's all pretty dubious now. It's become more of a quest for absolute power these days. There are more Immortal megalomaniacs than there are Immortal philanthropists, that's for sure. Most of them are obsessed with the unspoken rule that says 'there can be only one'." Methos' voice lowered on the last words, his tone making them sound ominous, as if voicing a curse. "That's the whole concept of the Game. We kill each other off one by one in single combat, taking the other's power for our own. The final Immortal standing will possess the sum of all Immortal power on earth and will have their accumulated knowledge of the ages by which to guide mankind." He grimaced at Jim. "Or _rule_ mankind, depending on your ambitions." 

"Immortal power?" Jim mused on the idea a moment. "The lightning on the bridge?" he speculated. 

Methos grinned. "Very good, Detective." 

"I saw it hit you. I saw your body almost . . . _soaking_ it up. It was the most fantastic thing I have ever seen." Jim's voice was eloquent with his awe at witnessing such a sight. 

"It may look fantastic, but it hurts like bloody hell, I can tell you," Methos attempted to bring some levity to the conversation. He didn't like the awed look in Jim's eyes. He didn't want Jim to see him as anything but another man; special, like Jim, but just a man, after all was said and done; a man who wasn't interested in ruling the world or gaining enormous power; a man who was only interested in surviving, in living one more day, taking each day as it came, as the blessing that it was. He told himself that all he was interested in was a good meal, a good book and good sex. Ah, yes. Now, how was he going to bring the topic around to sex again, he wondered, head tipped sideways, watching Jim shift against the dark leather, admiring the unrestricted view of those firm smooth muscles on that very impressive chest. 

Jim blinked. He reeled in surprise. The air was starting to fill with pheromones. He stared into the smiling hazel eyes glinting at him in the dimness of the room, lit now only by the lights of the city skyline and the moon in the clear night sky. 

Methos watched in fascination as his lover's growing arousal played out on his face. Methos hadn't even had to say a word. Just thinking about what Jim had done to his body so far, and what he wanted him to do further, and what _he_ wanted to do to Jim, was getting him aroused. And his arousal seemed to be acting as a trigger to the other man, whose eyes were dilating, nostrils flaring, his mouth opening to let a long tongue sweep over dry lips. He saw Jim draw in a deep breath and then watched a small shudder ripple over the tall frame. Methos smiled a sultry, knowing smile and relaxed. 

"Have we talked enough yet?" he drawled. "Any more questions?" 

Jim's mind had gone on autopilot again. He shifted closer and began undoing the buttons on the crumpled blue shirt for the second time that night. "No more questions. No more talking." Jim leaned forward and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the prominent collar-bone. "Do you have a bed?" He moved down further to a hard nub of a nipple. 

Methos grasped the head bent to his chest. "Yes," he sighed luxuriously. He loved the man's mouth. He moved back and pulled the face toward his for a short hard kiss and then was leading his lover across the room. "In here . . ." he motioned. Jim followed the slim half-nude figure, watching the shifting buttocks under the clinging material of the man's slacks. He watched Methos' clothing hit the floor and then the man's body hit the king-size bed with the rumpled sheets. He watched as that long lithe form rolled and a lamp clicked on bathing all that hard spare beauty in soft golden lamplight. Jim stopped in the doorway, drinking in the sight. 

Methos rolled to his back and looked up. "Don't you zone-out on me again, Jim," he warned, sitting up. "Jim!" he barked, noting Ellison's intense stare. 

Jim blinked. Jesus! He had to get a handle on this! "Sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed, grinning but not able to meet Methos' eyes. 

"Jim," Methos waited until the other man met his gaze. "Help me out here, Jim. How are we going to do this, if you keep going catatonic on me?" He grinned to take the sting out of the words. "Tell me what to do to help you. What have you done with other lovers to control this?" 

Jim came to sit on the side of the bed. "I've only had one other lover that I reacted to like I react to you. It was a woman, and I lost complete control. Everyone thought I had gone crazy, even Sandburg, until he figured out that it was my senses doing the driving, not my mind." 

"So, how can I help you keep control?" Methos couldn't believe he was asking this. What he really wanted to do was drive the man completely _out_ of control. But he'd already seen the consequences of that and he didn't want to have to go through it again. 

"We need to make sure that the stimulation is spread evenly over all five of my senses," Jim mumbled uncomfortably. He couldn't believe he was discussing this with a lover, let alone such a new one. "As much as we can, anyway. Then I shouldn't get overwhelmed by just one." 

Methos smiled at Jim's embarrassment. He didn't dare tease. The man was already bright red. "How do we do that?" he asked mildly. 

"I need to keep my eyes open, using my sight. You can keep reminding me. You need to talk to me and make sure I'm listening to you. You need to touch me at the same time as I touch you. Maybe then I won't zone on scent and taste again. They seem to be the most sensitive to you." 

"Okay," Methos held open his arms. "I think we can manage that." Jim stood up but before he could move, Methos put up one hand in a stop-sign motion. He pointed to Jim's pants and then watched avidly as Jim undid them and slid them off, following with the removal of his boxers. "Nice boxers," Methos teased Jim, who grinned as he climbed onto the bed, surging forward and taking his lover with him so that they were both lying side by side on the soft cotton sheets. Methos held Jim away from him with both hands for a long moment as he surveyed his naked lover. "You are beautiful," he stated simply. He reached down and wrapped his long-fingered hand around Jim's erection and started a slow easy stroking motion, encouraging it to harden and lengthen further. "And this is a very beautiful cock." 

Jim chuckled, arching his back, pushing himself into that strong flexible grip. "Are you a connoisseur or something?" he teased breathlessly. 

"Well, I've certainly seen a lot of them in five thousand years," Methos joked back. He sobered suddenly. "And this one is incredibly beautiful." He looked up into the sky-blue gaze studying him. "You are an incredibly beautiful man," he told Jim, watching him arch those long back muscles, watching the straining of the strong neck, feeling the cock in his hand grow harder and hotter with each stroke. "I want to taste your beautiful cock, Jim, and then I want you to fuck me with it. Is that okay with you?" 

"God, yes," Jim groaned, watching the light catch on the flecks of bright colour in the hazel eyes. He arched again with a moan of pleasure into that steady stroking grip: up, down, up, down. He could zone on the pendulum regularity of it if not for the sparkling eyes holding his gaze and the soft low voice seducing him with promises of ecstasy to come. The heavy scent of raw male musk underlaid everything. Only one sense was feeling deprived and Jim moved to fill it, bending forward and sealing his mouth over the seductive line of the tight lips before him. The mouth opened under his and then taste was added to his sensual feast. 

Methos' stroking hand gentled, his touch becoming feather-light and teasing on Jim's hot length. He released it completely and surged up, pushing Jim onto his back. He brought one heavy thigh up and over Jim, pulling himself over the other man's long, well-muscled legs and settled himself on top of that magnificent body. They both released long satisfied sighs as Methos' weight pushed their hard cocks into each other's bellies. They grinned at each other at the sound. 

"You don't realize how much you miss it, do you, until you feel another man's cock slide against your own?" Methos shifted onto his forearms, holding his shoulders above Jim, rubbing their cocks together so that they could enjoy each other's heat and slickness from shared pre-ejaculate. "Nothing like it." 

"Oh, that feels good," Jim sighed as Methos started humping against him. He began instinctively to mirror the movements of his lover's hips, arching up into that heat with slow hard thrusts of his hips. "Oh, yeah." 

"Ummm. . ." Methos hummed deep in his throat as he kept the rhythm smooth and gentle, rocking against his lover, arched up away from Jim's chest for leverage. 

"Are we going to take our time?" Jim's chest-deep rumble asked. 

"Yesss," Methos hissed with the slow easy pleasure. "I want this to last all night," he groaned, eyes closed, throat extended, head tipped back helplessly. 

Jim just chuckled. "All night, eh? I'm not immortal, you know," he teased. 

Methos' eyes flew open and they were staring into each other's wide eyes, laughing together in delight as they both thought of the night to come and the pleasures they were going to share. He lowered his chest against Jim's and captured that smiling mouth for a long, slow, sensuous kiss. He tasted Jim's mouth thoroughly, his tongue moving in sync with the thrust of his hips before reluctantly moving on to taste the rest of the delicious body beneath him. How would he ever have enough of this man, he thought sadly. He knew this night was going to be as great a torment to his heart and mind as it was going to be a delight to his body and soul. 

Hours, or was it minutes later, Jim pulled his lover up and away from his throbbing erection, sighing at the loss of the delicious torment of that talented mouth. "Uh . . . that's a little too close to the edge for comfort, lover. I thought you wanted me in you this time?" 

"Methos," the other man whispered. He saw Jim's brows draw together in confusion. "I want to hear my name on your lips, Jim." He saw comprehension dawn in the blue eyes, and then pleasure flare in them. "Please?" 

"Methos," Jim said the name carefully. "Did I get it right?" 

"Yes," Methos closed his eyes and sighed. "Again." 

"Methos," Jim nuzzled into the strong throat as he pressed his Immortal lover back onto the bed and covered him with his hot sweaty body. "Methos," he growled. 

"Get me ready, Jim," Methos moaned under Jim's hot open-mouthed devouring of the skin along his neck and shoulders. "There's massage oil in the drawer. Open me up and take me, lover. I need to feel you loving me from the inside out. Please," he moaned again as his nipples burned beneath Jim's teeth and fingers. 

"In a minute," Jim whispered against Methos' belly, where his tongue was painting circles and swirls and the symbol for infinity. "I want to suck on that beautiful cock of yours first," he said, even as he bent and licked it from base to tip. "I want to make sure you're ready for me." 

"Oh, gods and demons of the heavens and the depths!" Methos muttered the imprecation under his breath. He thrust into the hot mouth that suddenly engulfed his straining cock. "I am _ready_ , Jim!" 

Jim reluctantly released the cock from his mouth, letting it slide slowly against his tongue one last time as it exited. "You taste so good," he explained his delay. "And the feel of you against my tongue . . ." He sighed and moved to retrieve the oil, anointing his fingers and, as Methos lifted his legs, his lover's opening. He took his time readying his lover for penetration until Methos was ready to scream with frustration. 

"I suppose you love the feel of my ass too?" Methos complained impatiently. 

"Yes," Jim mused, brushing his slick fingers against his lover's prostate thoughtfully and watching the reaction as Methos gasped and jerked. 

"Ohhhh," Methos wailed. "More, damn you!" He writhed almost uncontrollably against the firm strong thrusting fingers moving rhythmically inside him, which were only occasionally brushing against the spot where he wanted stimulation the most. "Jim! Please!" He sighed in relief and satisfaction as Jim's slicked cock pushed against him and then slowly, deliciously, slid deep into the centre of his heat and aching need. "Yessss . . ." he hissed, and grabbed the backs of his legs to open himself further to Jim's urgent possession of his body. He gasped as Jim slid in deeper and undulated against the pressure, sighing, "Ohhhh, yessss . . ." 

Their bodies rocked against each other, accommodating, welcoming and settling into a rhythm as natural as their breathing. The rocking extended into stronger movements from both of them, withdrawing and then meeting, arching and thrusting. Jim supported his lover with both strong hands as Methos' hands went to his aching cock. They moved together smoothly, with strength and power, building the pleasure between them, feeding it, directing it, nursing it until it reached unbearable proportions. 

Methos was the first to give in to it. With one last fierce upward thrust of his hips, he arched against Jim's powerful lunge and choked out a harsh cry of release as his whole body convulsed in ecstasy. His semen pulsed out of him and he groaned with each thick stream that gushed between them. 

For Jim it was a moment out of time frozen forever into memory; an instant when the world stopped and all he knew was that he was alive and here and joined to this other man by something unique in his experience. It was a complete moment of sensory overload and it almost destroyed him. 

For one instant, Jim stared down into this Immortal man's wild wide eyes. They were filled with some dark knowledge of life and death, of agony and ecstasy that he had never seen in a human being's eyes before. It was enough to chill the soul. And at the very same moment, he heard a cry from his lover's heart, voicing everything the eyes were trying to convey. A hot pulse of that same dark passion hit his chest, the smell of it going straight past his olfactory sense on a mainline to his brain. He could taste that heat, taste its remnants on his tongue, and that lingering taste burst into fresh life, flooding his mouth again. 

Jim thought he might pass out on the spot. His sentinel senses wavered on the edge of oblivion, and then he felt it. Rising up from deep inside him, burning through his groin, barrelling up and out of him with the power to destroy or conquer, the passion took him. He plunged into Methos' body, howling, cursing "oh, shit. . . oh, shit . . ." as his orgasm ripped him open, shot fire from his cock, and took him into a frenzy of thrusting that surely would have broken his partner's back, if that man hadn't by then been completely concentrated on accommodating his wild, ferocious, untamed assault. 

Inevitably Jim's strength finally waned, the passion subsided and he slumped on top of Methos, who groaned at the weight. With the last of his slowly disappearing coordination, Jim pulled himself back, leaving his lover's hot body, and rolled slightly, slumping down on the bed exhausted. He watched Methos' legs lower limply to the bed even as his eyes slid shut of their own accord. 

"Methos," was only a whisper on the edge of consciousness. 

"Go to sleep, Jim," was muttered by the oldest Immortal as he pushed himself up from the bed just far enough to snag a sheet to drag over their wet bodies. Mission accomplished, he collapsed back with eyes closed, already half asleep when his seemingly boneless body hit the bed. 

* * *

Jim was dreaming. The most beautiful man he had ever seen stood before him, holding out his hands. "Come with me, Jim," the vision urged. "Come let me love you." The soft words caressed his ears and his heart. The tall slim beauty's eyes were sad and happy at the same time, and Jim puzzled over this, but he never hesitated to follow. He placed his hands in the hands of his lover; yes, his lover. Suddenly everything felt right, familiar and Jim followed his lover as he backed towards a stream flowing past grassy banks. The beautiful man led Jim down through the soft grass that tickled the bottoms of his feet, down onto the cool wet mud of the stream bed that pushed between his toes, and then finally into the water. But this was like no stream that Jim had ever stepped into before. It was warm against Jim's skin, and he delighted in the strange pleasure of it. A warm stream? It's current moved against his flesh, tugging at him pleasurably: first against his feet as he stepped gingerly into the water, then against his ankles, faintly tickling, then the backs of his legs, knees and thighs, until he felt it swirling, swirling, delightfully, arousingly against his buttocks, lifting his sac and pushing against the underside of his cock, making it bounce. 

A set of sharp teeth sank into Jim's right buttock and he was instantly awake. He jerked in surprise at the sudden passionate attack and then really came awake as he realized what had been happening to him. No wonder he had been enjoying the dream so much. He could feel the dampness of his lover's saliva clinging to the backs of his legs, all the way from his toes to his cock. That talented tongue had bathed him and aroused him so skilfully he hadn't realized it until this moment. Now the strong warm hands were parting his buttocks and that tongue was seeking out the place that had been its goal all along. Jim drew his legs up as he lay on his side and reached back to hold himself open for his lover. 

Methos murmured his appreciation with indistinct syllables that could have meant anything and moved in to lick at Jim's opening. He bathed it as thoroughly as he had the rest of Jim's backside and then, as Jim sighed, and the guardian muscle visibly relaxed, Methos' tongue moved inside to pleasure his lover in a manner they both craved. With Jim helping, Methos' hands were free to caress Jim's balls and cock, which he did with gentle strength, as he pressed his tongue into Jim over and over again, humming contentedly under his breath, the vibration just strong enough to make his sensitive sentinel lover shiver as he strained to lay perfectly still. 

Jim wasn't quite successful. Methos watched with deep satisfaction as the man before him writhed in pleasure at the tongue-fucking, the hungry hole at the centre of Jim's ass, opening and closing like a second mouth begging for kisses. So Methos kissed it; deeply, thoroughly and passionately, revelling in his sensitive lover's response. 

The Sentinel trembled, he whimpered and finally, almost incoherent as Methos' tongue dug deep inside him, he choked, "Shit . . . Shit! I'm gonna come!" 

In one smooth swift lunge, Methos rose behind Jim and slid his already well-slicked erection into the loose wet opening. They both groaned like wounded men. Jim thrust back hard, seeking that last bit of stimulation that would end his torment. Methos retreated once, grasped Jim's firm ass in shaking hands, and then slid home forcefully with a hoarse shout. Jim rocked with the shockwave as his lover's hard cock jammed against his prostate and the big man's whole body shook with the power of orgasm. His ass clenched around the hard cock impaling him and Methos came with deep pulsing pleasure in his lover's ass, gasping out incoherent cries of "oh . . . ohhh. . ." 

As the intensity of the pleasure ebbed slowly, Methos' limp cock slid out of its sheath. He heard his lover moan. The oldest Immortal spooned up behind the Sentinel, sliding a hand around his waist. Jim grabbed it and pulled it against his chest, holding it there with folded arms and slipped into a light sleep. Methos lay awake for a long time, his hand covering the heartbeat of the man of _his_ dreams. 

* * *

Something woke Jim. He opened his eyes to find a pair of well-muscled thighs beside the bed at his eye level. He blinked and then looked up as memory returned and realization dawned. He smiled at Methos standing nude beside the bed. His lover was still covered with sweat and semen and Jim soaked up the heady sight and smell of him with satisfaction. He pulled the man back down into his arms and wrapped himself around him in a full-body hug. He revelled in the body heat, the feel of warm skin against his own. Methos settled against him, boneless and heavy. Jim turned his head and nuzzled the long neck. Methos reciprocated the action, placing a warm soft kiss against the hard column of Jim's throat. 

"I think I'm falling in love with you," Jim confessed in a hushed tone that was quiet, deep, and full of emotion. He spoke the words into the hollow at the base of his lover's throat. 

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't want that to happen." Methos rested his forehead on Jim's shoulder. He realized he should have been prepared for this. He also realized that he hadn't wanted to think about anything as painful as the consequences of his actions. It had all been about the special moment in time that they had created between them, and now that moment was over. Jim just didn't know it yet. 

Jim's question, "Why not?" was met with silence and another soft kiss against his warm skin, so he tried again. "When can I see you again?" 

"Jim . . ." Methos wondered how he'd ever thought he could get through this without hurting the other man. He'd been an Immortal too long. 

Ellison interrupted. "I need to go back to Cascade by tonight to finish the paperwork on this case, but if there's nothing on my desk, I can be back here late Friday night." 

Methos braced himself. "Jim, I'm leaving town." 

"What?" Jim's nuzzling stopped abruptly. "Why?" His voice sounded blank with shock. 

"I just died, Jim," Methos explained in a subdued tone. "It's too dangerous to stay here in the States right now. I've got a place in Paris where I can wait until the heat is off. There's bound to be a flurry of Watcher activity over the fight on the bridge. I have to keep an eye on that and I can't do it if I'm not at Watcher HQ." 

"That's it?" Jim still couldn't get his mind around it. "One night and it's over?" 

"Jim, you've got to understand." Methos shifted restlessly in Jim's arms, but the other man didn't release him. Methos sighed. "In an Immortal's life there are no guarantees. Like it is in your life; you face bullets on an almost daily basis. Well, I have very determined people who can't be easily killed, armed with experienced sword fighting skills, searching for me all over the globe. I am a hunted man, Jim." 

"I can help." The Sentinel's protective instincts kicked into life. 

"Jim, Jim . . ." Methos sighed heavily. "No, you can't. You can't interfere in the Game. It has to be played out according to the rules and mortals who get involved end up getting hurt . I wouldn't want that to happen to you, Jim. You mean something to me. I don't want you to get hurt because of me. Do you understand?" His lover's silence indicated that he didn't. "Jim, I'm a very old, very powerful Immortal. My quickening-- my power, if you like-- if taken by the wrong man, or taken by the _right_ man, could make the difference in the future of mankind. I know that sounds lofty and idealistic, but it's how I feel. I have to do what I can to see that the power that resides inside my body doesn't fall into unscrupulous hands." 

Jim pulled back until he was nose to nose with the oldest Immortal. "And how do you propose to do that?" 

With their gazes locked, Methos' voice never wavered. "By staying within the sphere of influence of a man who _does_ deserve that power. A man whom I believe has the courage and the moral strength to use it wisely or not at all." 

"And who would that be? Who is this 'right man,' Methos?" Jim's voice was bitter with emphasis on the last words. He had thought that he was the right man for Methos. It now looked like he had never been anything more than an interesting diversion for a man with more important things on his mind. "Your friend, MacLeod, I suppose," he suggested sarcastically. 

"As a matter of fact, yes," Methos' voice became hard, cold, calculating. "I'm talking about Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, born in 1592 in the Highlands of Scotland. He's an idealistic man, a man who has seen much and not let it destroy his soul, a man who wrestles with his conscience on a daily basis, a good man. I believe he has a chance to win it all. I believe that he deserves the chance to try and I'm doing my best to help him achieve that goal, because I truly believe that no matter how powerful he becomes as an Immortal, he will always be a good man." 

Jim listened to the conviction in the man's voice. He suddenly felt completely out of his depth. How had he fooled himself into thinking he could hold the interest of a five thousand year old man; a powerful man, a man who would never die? "Do you love him?" Jim growled. 

Methos' expression became increasingly grim as he forced himself to tell the truth and not spare either of their feelings. "Yes, I do, strangely enough. He's like a brother to me, only closer than blood. He's a trusted friend and ally. He knows that Immortals aren't meant to have personal lives. He wears the mantle of duty and justice very well, despite his discomfort with them. He deserves my support and he has it, one hundred percent." 

"I see," Jim said, because he finally did. "And I don't suppose there's anything left over for lonely aging _mortal_ cops, is there?" 

"Oh, Jim . . ." Methos felt a familiar ache resurface at the pain in that deep voice. He pulled back against the pressure of Jim's arms and he was finally released. He levered himself above the reclining man and met his hard hurting blue eyes head-on again. "I'm sorry. I didn't think this thing through before we started. It just seemed the right thing to do." The attempt at a smile that he sent Jim was painfully difficult, but he tried. "I've given you all I have to give." 

"I had hoped for something more. Nothing permanent, mind you. I didn't expect that. But . . . one night?" Jim was grim-faced with disappointment. 

"At least we had that," Methos pointed out, but Jim's clenched jaw didn't soften. "Look, all I can promise is if I'm back in Seacouver with Mac, I'll give you a call. I might be back again as early as the fall, or next year. But I don't expect you to wait around for me to show up again, Jim. You have a life to live. Don't waste it waiting for something that might have been." 

"Doesn't look like I have much choice," the Sentinel's voice was cold. 

"You know, that partner of yours cares for you an awful lot." Methos fought to find something that he could give his lover, something concrete that he could give Jim to cling to if he wasn't able to return. 

"Blair?" Jim was surprised at the change of subject. 

"Yes," Methos nodded. He knew Jim wasn't ready to think about another man, but he wanted to plant the seed of an idea into Jim's consciousness. The man didn't have to be alone. He had so much going for him, including a partner who worshipped the ground he walked on. Methos cared about Jim; enough to not want him left grieving alone. 

"Blair is a ladies' man through and through," Jim laughed at the idea of Blair and himself. "They follow him around in droves and he loves every minute of it. He's a good friend, and a more than competent partner, but he's not interested in an aging cop either." 

"Are you sure? Have you ever asked?" Methos persisted. 

"Are you kidding? And freak the kid out?" Jim laughed again, and it had a sickeningly hollow sound. "He just found out I'm bi. I'm not going to start coming onto the kid and scaring the daylights out of him." 

"You should think about it, Jim," Methos urged. "You two are so close. You seem to care a lot about each other. It sounds to me like you are an integral part of each other's lives already. Maybe he's just waiting for you to make the first move. Maybe he's lonely too." 

Jim snorted in disgust, losing patience with his lover's redirection of the conversation away from themselves. "Methos, Blair's never home long enough to get lonely. He has a very full life what with police work and the university. Besides, I . . . I don't think about Blair that way." Jim frowned in thought, and a vision rose up in his mind's eye of deep blue eyes sparkling with laughter and affection, and wind-swept curls blowing in crazy chaos around a smile as wide and generous as all outdoors. Blair? Before he could honestly and thoroughly consider the idea, something inside him urged him to push the vision away. He turned his attention back to the man next to him on the bed. "What I want, I have in my arms right now." He illustrated this by sliding his hands back around the man's hips and pulling them close enough together that each could feel the other's unaroused cock. "Only you're saying I can't have it." 

"I'm not going to argue about it, Jim," Methos turned his head and looked away from his lover, severing that connection. "I have a flight out of here for London at noon and I'm going to be on it," he pronounced. 

"Right," Jim sighed. "I guess that's that then." Jim rose stiffly from the bed, gathered up his clothes even more stiffly from the floor and left the room. The closing click of the bathroom door was loud in the silence of the apartment. 

Methos lay on the bed fighting with his conscience. Let him go, it told him. But he didn't listen. He rose and followed the sound of the shower spray, drawn by an instinct stronger than himself. He ended up watching with rapidly heating blood as Jim lathered and rinsed behind the fluted glass of the shower door. When he could no longer stand the thought of all that water falling, dripping and beading all over that magnificent body, that body that belonged to him as much as his own did, that body that housed a soul that had ripped his wide open in less than a day. . . Methos opened the shower door. 

Jim spun beneath the water, his eyes meeting his lover's. Pain rose in a wave, and a wave of desire just as strong rose in tandem and quickly obliterated it. He froze as Methos stepped in and closed the door. Jim barely dared breathe as his lover took him in his arms and kissed him slowly, persuasively, pleadingly, erotically, and finally, with heartbreaking, devastating tenderness. The elegant hands slid to cup Jim's buttocks. The hot mouth moved to kiss Jim just below his right ear. Jim ached and waited and hoped. 

"Again?" Methos rasped in Jim's ear. 

"Yeah . . ." Jim agreed readily. "Yeah. In me. Again. Now." Jim turned without urging and plastered himself to the shower wall. He thrust his buttocks back at his lover. "Now, Methos. Come on. Do it!" 

Methos reached into the shower caddy and squirted some hair conditioner into his hand. He coated his cock with swift strokes and then reached into his lover's ass. Jim was still loose from their earlier thorough lovemaking and he just applied the rest of the lubrication and then moved into position behind Jim. He pushed the man's legs further apart, pressing his body against Jim's to support him and bring his cock into contact with Jim's opening. He slid home in one smooth thrust and they both groaned with the pleasure. Methos started a strong steady thrusting rhythm, changing position in minute increments until he felt Jim shudder against him as he found his lover's prostate. 

Jim gasped. "Oh yeah! That's so goddamn good! More, Methos!" he demanded, gasping for air, locking his knees and reeling under the onslaught of fiery pleasure searing his insides, reaching right up into his chest and throat. 

With Jim braced against the wall, Methos held the firm ass cheeks apart and pressed his weight in even closer with each thrust, knowing his lover's strength could take it. His cock and balls felt like they were on fire and he knew it was going to be over soon. He released one of Jim's buttocks and reached around the taller man, forcing his hand between Jim and the tiles, grasping Jim's bursting cock, and giving it a rough yank. 

Jim shouted and came, calling, "Yes! Yes!" The words rang around the small enclosure and deafened them both. His hard cock shot stream after stream of semen onto the wall and over his belly and thighs. By the time it was over he was trembling, breathless and almost sobbing with emotions that longed to be expressed. 

Jim's release caught Methos and dragged his orgasm out of his five thousand year old body. His lover's hoarse cry, the pulse of the cock in his hand, the clench of Jim's body around his own cock at the apex of his last thrust deep into that well of heat and pleasure brought a wave of even deeper pleasure rising out of him. Methos felt his own release as in a sensual dream. Ecstasy bathed him from head to toe. He held on tightly to his lover and let it wash through him, over him, into him. It settled deeply into the empty well inside himself that had been waiting for it with an endless base hunger than could never be sated. After long long moments, Methos' cock slipped out of its resting place and he stepped back. 

Immediately, Jim turned and pulled Methos into desperate arms. "Don't go," Jim whispered, his voice hoarse with an effort at control. 

There was no answer in words, just a powerful embrace that promised to crush the Sentinel's ribs if it lasted much longer, and then his lover was climbing out of the shower and drying himself, his back turned away so that all Jim could see were the wide shoulders slouched in pain and defeat that echoed Jim's own. 

* * *

An hour later, Jim walked into his and Blair's hotel just after noon and wrote a note out on a card at the front desk. He gave it to a busboy and handed him a twenty to deliver it to Mr. Blair Sandburg in the hotel restaurant. Then he turned and left. 

Blair's cab pulled up five minutes later. He paid the driver and then headed towards the solitary figure seated in the sand a foot or so above the reach of the waves that were breaking gently upon the beach. He didn't say a word, just sat down at Jim's side and waited until the big man noticed him. 

"Sorry about lunch," Jim muttered hunching even lower into his jacket, not looking at Blair. 

"You okay?" Blair's voice was rough with his concern. 

There was a long taut silence that lasted forever. "I don't know," Jim finally answered. 

"What happened?" Blair bent, trying to see Jim's face. 

"He's gone," Jim muttered and turned his head away to look down the beach. "Noon flight to London. Probably won't be back anytime soon." 

"Jesus, Jim. I'm sorry." Blair knew it was lame, but couldn't come up with anything more sincere than that heartfelt sentiment. 

"Don't be," Jim tried to sound resigned, indifferent. "My own fault," he rasped. 

"Jim . . ." Blair urged gently, placing his hand on his sentinel's arm. Jim finally turned to look at his partner. Blair took in the bloodshot eyes from unshed tears or lack of sleep. He had sand all over him, like he'd been lying on the beach face down, perhaps grieving. Blair reached out and gently brushed some off a pale cheek. "I wish I could say or do something, Jim. Something to make it better or at least easier." 

"You're here, Blair. That's all that counts." Blue eyes stared into blue before Jim looked away again, embarrassed. 

Sandburg sighed. "Yeah, Jim. I'm here, man. Count on it." 

Blair held out his hand and Jim closed his own long-fingered one around it and brought the joined hands into his lap with a grateful sigh. He patted the smooth skin on the back of his guide's hand before clasping the slim fingers between his larger ones. 

"Thanks, Chief." 

* * *

Methos sat in the back of the taxi clutching his carry-all and watching the airport come up on their left side as they pulled off the freeway. The taxi stopped in front of the doors marked 'Departures' and he paid the driver and got out. He went through the usual preflight formalities and finally spied MacLeod seated by the windows in the waiting area. 

"It's about time," MacLeod stood as his friend joined him and they settled onto adjacent seats. The Highlander looked the oldest Immortal over carefully. "You look like hell." 

"Thank you kindly," Methos intoned sarcastically. 

"Where were you last night?" Mac tried to get Methos to meet his eyes. "I thought you'd be by to find out what happened with the detective from Cascade." His travelling companion just stared out the window at the plane they were about to board. "He seemed like a nice guy. Very apologetic about not being able to find any trace of your body for burial. He was quite upset about it in fact." Mac stared at the taut profile. "Brought a little guy along with him. Name of Sandburg." 

"His partner," Methos added almost involuntarily. 

"You've met him too?" Mac let his surprise show. 

"Once," Methos grudgingly agreed. 

"He didn't look like a cop," Mac probed for more information. Something was up with Methos, but what? 

"He's not." Methos sighed. "He's a professor of anthropology at Rainier; a teaching fellow working on his doctorate actually. Would have been a colleague." 

"Ahhh!" Light was beginning to dawn. Mac was starting to put two and two together. "That must be how you met the detective, right?" 

"Right," Methos' answer was clipped. 

"They're partners, meaning they work together?" Mac guessed. 

"Yes." Methos' answers were getting shorter and shorter. 

Mac wondered what to say that would goad the old man into showing some life. "They looked like they were pretty close," he observed. 

"They are," Methos agreed. 

"Maybe more than just working partners?" Mac couldn't detect any jealousy. Maybe he had been imagining things. 

"Maybe." Methos' head came up as he heard their boarding call. "That's us," he announced to Mac as he got up and dragged his bag over to the line-up forming at the gate. 

Mac followed with his duffle. "You're not sure?" 

"No, but I did my best to push them together," Methos muttered as an aside to his friend then stepped forward and showed the attendant his boarding pass. He hurried off down the corridor to the ramp and then onto the plane. 

"What?!" Mac's voice echoed after the old man. He showed his pass and hurried after him, but didn't catch him up until they were standing beside their seats. Methos was pushing his bag into an overhead compartment. "You mean you saw them while they were here in Seacouver?" Mac's voice was shocked. He watched the other man settle into the window seat. "I thought you wanted them to think you were dead?" His bewilderment was plain as he sank down in the seat beside his friend. "When they left the dojo they thought you were dead!" 

"I . . ." Methos wondered why he was trying to explain at all. It was none of Mac's business. It was over and done with. What good would it do to open up the wound and examine it under the Highlander's caustic microscope? Would he learn any more than he already knew? Would it make him feel better about what he did to try to explain it? What was he hoping for here? Understanding? From Mac?! "I met with Ellison last night. I thought he deserved to know the truth." 

"Tell a mortal the truth?" Mac's voice rose. His friend shot him an quelling glance and he lowered its volume, quickly glancing over his shoulder to check if he had been overheard. Reassured that he hadn't been, he continued his tirade in an undertone. "Since when did you care about what mortals think?" he hissed. "Since when have you ever told a mortal anything about us?" Mac was incredulous. 

"Ellison is different," Methos huffed defensively. "I knew he would understand and he did." 

"I don't believe I'm hearing this!" Mac spluttered. "You broke all your own rules? You told a mortal about us? A mortal _cop_! A cop who saw you behead somebody?!" He shook his head back and forth in disbelief. 

"You don't understand." Methos' voice was clipped with his impatience at trying to make Mac understand the incomprehensible. Even _he_ had trouble believing how close Jim had gotten in so short a time. It _was_ incredible, as Mac said. "I owed it to him to be straight with him. He took a chance coming after me. He broke _his_ rules too." Methos took a deep breath. "I wanted to tell him the truth." 

"Bullshit!" Mac snorted in disgust. "You agreed to see him because you wanted something from him. You've never done an altruistic thing in your life," he accused. 

"I'll have you know . . ." Methos started indignantly. 

"I don't want to hear it!" Mac cut in. He surveyed the other man with a critical eye. "You look like you've been drinking all night. What happened? Did he turn you down?" 

The oldest Immortal sighed heavily again. Would Mac understand this part of it either? "No," Methos intoned quietly. "He stayed the night." 

Mac just stared open-mouthed at the old man. This was _not_ the Methos that he had come to know. So who was he? "You and he . . ." 

"All night," Methos confirmed bluntly, his voice grim. 

"Then what the hell are you doing getting on an airplane for England?" Mac was bug-eyed with astonishment. "A guy like that doesn't just stay the night on a whim. He must have known what he was doing. If he knows the truth, all of it, and _accepted_ it, why run?" 

"Same reason I got on an airplane for Paris the last time," the old man intoned mildly. 

"Explain it to me," Mac insisted. "I'll bet you had a hell of a time explaining it to him, didn't you? What in God's name did you say? I'd like to hear it. I really would." 

"I told him that Immortals couldn't afford private lives," Methos' voice continued calmly. 

Mac snorted. "Bullshit." 

Methos ignored the rude interjection. "I told him the Game was more important than my personal life." 

"You bastard," Mac accused. "It's a wonder he didn't shoot you." 

Methos thought about that for a moment before replying almost under his breath. "I think I almost wish he had. It might have made both of us feel better." 

"Oh, Methos." Mac stared at his friend in bewildered amusement. "You really know how to screw things up, don't you?" 

"Don't," the old man winced and turned away to look out the tiny window beside him. 

Mac had no idea what to say to this 5000 year old man who had learned nothing in all that time about love; only about living and dying. And surviving. Finally he let concern for his friend's pale visage and brittle demeanor prompt a question. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?" 

"Are you kidding?" Methos' small smile was there and then gone again just as quickly as he turned back to the Highlander. "Did you get a good look at him? He's a dream come true, Mac." 

Mac's answering expression was full of pity. "So I guess now he thinks you used him?" 

"Probably," Methos sighed in resignation. "I tried to use that hurt to push him into his partner's arms," he confessed. 

"You are one miserable son-of-a-bitch, old man," Mac declared. "Your manipulation games will be the death of you one day." 

"So you keep telling me," the old man shrugged, accepting the accusation and the warning with equanimity. 

"So we know you pretty well crushed that poor man's self esteem," Mac concluded his observations. "What did it do to you?" 

A tense silence fell. Mac wondered if he could get the old man to tell him what was happening inside his head. Methos was one of the most private and closed-mouth individuals he had ever known, who liked to pretend that he _had_ no emotions. But, given his long history, perhaps it was habit as much as a technique of self-preservation. 

"Talk to me, Methos," the Highlander urged. 

"There's nothing to say," Methos muttered, eyes downcast. 

"Why did you run?" Mac persisted. He had his suspicions, but he wanted to hear the old man voice them, face them. He watched his friend turn away in exasperation at the question. "You could have done something, arranged some way to keep seeing him." 

"Don't be so bloody naive, MacLeod!" Methos finally exploded under the pressure of the uncomfortable questions. "He's a cop! How long do you think it would be before he couldn't accept me killing other Immortals? And do you think he would have been able to accept the fact that one day I just might not come back from a challenge? What do you think _that_ would do to him?" 

"You should have given him the choice," Mac insisted, still pushing. "He's a cop. He's used to people not coming back. It's part of the job." 

"I couldn't," Methos muttered and turned away again. 

Mac wanted more. "Why not?" 

Methos sighed and shook his head and finally gave in and answered. "Because he might have chosen to take the risks. He's a risk taker. And I couldn't let him. I couldn't have lived with that; knowing what he was going through every time I walked out the door, knowing he would try his damnedest to protect me. _Him_ protect _me_!" 

"Are you trying to tell me you're a selfish coward, Methos?" Mac's question was full of bitter sarcasm. 

Methos just snorted. "You draw your own conclusions, Mac. I made my choice." 

"And you made his for him, too," the Highlander accused. 

"Yes," the old man's answer was clipped. 

"Fool." Mac's insult was too. 

"Just shut up, Mac," Methos snapped, his anger finally firing. 

Mac didn't take the hint. He just kept on pushing. "Didn't you want to be with him?" 

Methos turned with sudden fury in his eyes but with a tightly controlled voice that nevertheless started to rise dangerously toward hysteria. "Of _course_ I _wanted_ him! Are you stupid?! Are you blind?!" he spat at the man beside him. He took a deep breath and was alarmed to feel himself tremble. "He told me . . ." Methos felt his vision blurr and couldn't keep his voice from faltering for just a moment. "He told me . . . he was falling . . . in _love_ with me." He stared at the growing pity in the Highlander's eyes. "Don't you think I _wanted_ that, Mac? Gods and devils! I! Wanted! That!" he railed at his friend, ignoring the glares and stares from the other passengers near them. "I just couldn't . . ." Words failed him finally, and his eyes pleaded with Mac tounderstand. "I couldn't . . ." He felt a tear drop onto the back of his hand and stared at it in shock and horror. "Excuse me," he muttered to an equally shocked Highlander and jumped to his feet. 

Methos pushed past Mac's knees unceremoniously and charged down the aisle towards the restrooms. Finding one empty he ducked in and locked the door. He slumped over the basin, hanging onto it for dear life with both hands while he tried to stifle his sobs. He railed against fate and nature and every god he'd ever heard of in 5000 long lonely years wandering the earth. 

After long minutes of giving in to the unbearable weakness, he took a deep steadying breath, then another. Once his breathing was under a semblance of control he turned on the water, splashed his face and wiped it thoroughly. He glanced up into the mirror to check to see exactly how red his eyes looked and his gaze met that of the man reflected back at him. 

Time stood still. 

He'd seen that look too many times before. And it still wasn't any easier to face now than it had ever been. Only this time, this time he wondered if the soul-numbing pain might just win out over the overwhelming self-disgust. 

Still, it had been the right thing to do. 

Hadn't it? 

The End


End file.
